


Telling Lines

by Ouranos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Discrimination, Growing Up, M/M, Mention of rape (rape does not happen in the story), Prejudice, Repression, Secrets, Slow Build, Tattoos, but fairly hopeful, lying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:05:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 71,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2538755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ouranos/pseuds/Ouranos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His father’s voice entered his mind, all the warnings and pleas to be heedful of werewolves. How in the world did he end up with one as his best friend, and with another in his bed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The people, the Wolves and the Outsiders.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Not a WIP! Work is already finished. I'll be posting every two or three days.
> 
> 2) If slow build isn’t not your thing, this might frustrate you to no end. It is set at a fucking glacial pace, be actively warned. The Hales don’t actually show up until C11 and even then …. This ain’t a quick fix. It’s also partly a coming of age story, focused on Stiles, and that’s mostly what the first part of the work is about. Patience is a virtue?
> 
> 3) For clarity's sake: mostly POV Stiles. If otherwise, it's indicated after the + with the name of the other POV.
> 
> 4) Rating will change to mature at one point.

 

+

The people, the wolves and the outsiders.

 

2011

 

It was forty years ago that the world changed. The Great Reveal, it was called. People’s worlds got rocked, turned upside down. At first, everyone thought it was one big joke with surprisingly realistic special effects. Their screens showed red, blue and yellow neon irises, gruesome claws and sharp fangs. Their speakers let out gritty sounds of animalistic roars that made their bones shake. Families sat in front of their television sets and laughed, _well, that certainly is some dedicated work_ , they said. And the people claiming to be werewolves? _Complete nutters,_ they said. Their denial turned into disbelief, which then turned into fear and amazement. Screens may lie, but eyes don’t. Werewolves were real. They were real. _They’re real, darling, it’s not a trick._ Some people never accepted it as reality and some never would. Denial is safe. 

Slowly but surely the werewolves established their position in society. The suppressed group was free at last, and they roared, but harmlessly. However, the initial fear the human race harboured –and, oh, was there fear- had been soothed by exemplary behaviour: the Alphas kept strict control of their packs. _No, sweetie, they’re not monsters, they are just different. You don’t have to be scared. Just be careful._

Spokeswolves, as they cleverly called themselves, informed the people of their world. The werewolf hierarchy, the dynamics of their relationships, were a thoroughly exhausted topic of conversation between the werewolf and the human.

Laws were established. There were laws concerning the safety of humans, because, after all, there was no denying it: werewolves were stronger. Other laws ensured the safety of the werewolves, because, after all, there would always be those who would not accept reality and who would decide, that _this filth thinks itself superior and we are all in danger, humans, beware!_ The minority that formed the group of the werewolves was frequently subject to attacks –hunters existed and most of them lived by a code. Those hunters not living by a code usually kept their activities away from the public’s eye. Werewolves were aware of this. Humans? Less so.

Wolves lived in packs because this ensured stability and control. The world was made aware of the danger of Omegas, and people were asked to inform the nearest Alpha of one such presence so the situation could be dealt with with as little bloodshed as possible. The word bloodshed, however, was not used, for obvious reasons. Most Alphas were not of the ferocious, power hungry kind. They were diplomats. _We are optimistic about the future._ Integrate and communicate. That was the motto. Communicate to integrate. _We are not so different from you. Our DNA may be somewhat different, but we are still mostly human._ Soothing phrasings were supposed to calm the masses. In most cases, they did.

Rumours and speculations swarmed around. 

_Is it true they can control our minds? Oh, god, what if they already have?_

_Have you heard, there is a new werewolf living on our street and supposedly she left her Alpha. Is that even possible? Is she an Omega now? We should go alert the authorities._

_Mommy, is it true they are as strong as the Hulk? No, sweetie, of course not. (Are they?,_ a sideway whisper _)_

_Is it true our blood is like drugs for them?_

_They’re not friggin’ vampires, dumbass. You’re so damn gullible._

_My neighbour’s brother heard of an Omega who_ ate _a little girl!_

_I heard they were allergic to silver._

_That’s just TV, grandma._

_Supposedly aconite is harmful to them. Well, it_ is _called wolfsbane after all._

In most cases, they were just that: rumours and speculations. But, sometimes, they were true. It wasn’t possible to lie about the wolfsbane. Not once a crazed man with bugging eyes shouting _abominations_ at the top of his voice had thrown some of it on a beta in broad daylight, who then collapsed. It had been caught on TV. They had been accused of lying, but then the spokeswolves had changed tactic: instead of denying the effect of wolfsbane, they explained it fully; dosage and usage. _Communicate to integrate,_ an Alpha with white blond hair and a hooked nose repeated.

Now, people weren’t naive. Humans had found out the werewolf of their darkest tales existed, even though the werewolves proved not to be all that dark. It was only natural the human race started wondering, what else was out there? Which other species were hiding themselves in the shadows? Who else is hiding?

No other creatures made themselves public. Most people chose to turn the other cheek and believe that only werewolves and humans walked this earth. The truth was, these other beings did indeed exist. Only, they weren’t anywhere near as numerous as werewolves, nor always as human-like in appearance. These were the main reasons why they kept their existence on the down low. Humans are unpredictable and dangerous, and people were and would always be subject to prejudice, some of them still thinking of werewolves as violent beasts. These other beings, they chose not to risk exposing themselves to possible cruelty of humanity.

A second reason this third group stayed silent was the werewolves. Supernatural creatures didn’t always mesh, and just like humans, they were also prone to prejudice and hate. In some cases, the werewolves, who were by far the largest group of the supernatural world, posed a threat to these outsiders. So, as any sensible creature would do, they kept quiet. After all, how is your life at risk if no one knows you exist?

The third group didn’t have an official name. They weren’t humans or werewolves. They were something else. They were too different amongst themselves to be put in a category. Some of the smaller species died out. Some species grew in numbers. But, overall, they played it smart: never roam in large groups. If someone is close to finding out, move. If someone has found out, make sure they forget, one way or another.

They weren’t all very special nor very strong or powerful. But they were all different. There were many different species, dryads: naiads, ghouls, empaths, sprites, no one was ever sure exactly what was out there. They lived all over the world, from Asia to America, from Europe to Oceania.

The Stilinski family was not part of the werewolf population. They were not part of the fully human population. They were Outsiders, empaths, and kept it hidden well.

 

+

Claudia

 

Claudia Stilinski had been many called many things in her life. A kind woman. A troublemaker. She’d been called strong, but soft as well. Smart and smart-mouthed, curious and competitive, but also stubborn and jealous. A daughter. A friend. A lover. A mother.  She was loud and opinionated, loved a good argument and appreciated a no-nonsense approach to life.

As it was now, in the year 2000 on a windy day in autumn in a neighbourhood in Sacramento, Claudia was about to die. Some people say that right before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. This was not the case for her. She didn’t think about her parents, or her childhood, or her college years, nor about her best friend, Charlie Tenner. Her eyes flickered over only briefly to her husband, John Stilinski, who wore a confused look on his face.

She had but few moments before claws would lash at her throat. The only coherent thought running through her mind was, _no, oh no, not me, not now._ In a matter of seconds the feeling of slight unease had turned into soul-gripping terror as she realized she was actually about to die. The werewolf was merely a few footsteps away from her, advancing with inhuman speed. The last thought she had was, _my baby_. Her son, who loved to run around in the house, who spent hours on end playing with his toys, who John adored, who was loud and curious, just like herself. Her five-year-old boy, who she loved more than life. Her son, who was currently at home, being babysat on by a young girl looking to make some extra money.

John had once said that he feared he would get knocked down by the force these two would one day present. The memory passed through her mind, fleetingly. That day wouldn’t come, she realized.

The last thing Claudia did was beg a soft and disorientated, “No,” before a pain seared through her body. Something must’ve blocked her airway, because she couldn’t speak in the last few seconds she was alive. She felt some sort of warm liquid on her neck and sounds around her were too harsh to her ears. She tried to speak, but only gurgles came out. John held her in his arms, a white shirt turned red. Death can be peaceful and natural. This death, however, was brutal, painful and cruel.

 

+

John

 

What happened next in the Stilinski household could only be described as a downwards spiral. Whiskey became John’s new best friend, and he ignored his real ones. The small house was silent, their ugly couch abused by the ever-present passed out form of a grieving husband.

The grief John Stilinski felt was like no other feeling he had experienced before. There was no anger at first, just numbness. Charlie couldn’t connect to him –“John, John, you need to listen to me. John. John?” He didn’t respond. Unable to take care of his own son, the boy spent weeks, months at Charlie’s house playing with her two children. Charlie had tried to explain that his mother was gone, but the five-year-old boy didn’t understand. Of course his mommy was still there. His small head turned around sharply and he focused his attention on a drawing he was making, lines scrambled.

About a week after her death the Alpha of the werewolf responsible came by the house. The door was unlocked and she came in hesitantly. The fifty-year-old woman named Rebecca expressed her deepest sympathies. “Mr. Stilinski, this should not have happened. I am so, truly, truly, sorry. William,” that was the name of the werewolf, and she uttered it with pain “has been … we’ve taken care of the problem.” She continued to tell him an agreement between the wolves and the Tenners had been made: no one would go to the police, because it would attract too much attention to their being empaths. On two conditions: justice would be served, the wolves would leave never to return. Justice in wolf packs worked somewhat differently. Human law would mean jail. However, on some occasions, the police was left out, and problems were _solved_ without the intervention of the legal system. The werewolf was killed.

John didn’t care, he did not care for her words of diplomacy and sorrow. He just wanted to be left alone. He didn’t care when the Alpha explained that William had thought Claudia was manipulating him as an empath. Why wouldn’t she leave?

“A slip-up led to the discovery you are empaths, and William thought he was being tricked. He’s had a temper-,” He was hardly listening to her. “ … an accident, Mr. Stilinski.”

“An accident,” he repeated bleakly. Rebecca stood in front of him, unsure of what to do. It was the first thing he’d said. “An accident is bumping into a closet or, or … This accident is a gravestone.” The last word were spat out.

The Alpha did nothing other than apologize. He cut her off, “What am I supposed to do with your apologies? She’s gone, my … Stiles has no mother because of you, his mom is dead.” Tears blinded his eyes, and he couldn’t control the tremor in his voice. Not that he tried. He didn’t care. “You are responsible for this, you were responsible for him and now… How can you stand here like that, how can you think this is okay? Your words mean nothing.” He took a deep breath and buried his face in his hands. “What am I supposed to do now? How am I…” Those few sentences were the most he would ever say about his pain.

Rebecca took the verbal beating. She stood still in the kitchen. “I’ve killed one of my own. I understand-,”

“And his death is supposed to make it okay?” It didn’t. He had hardly felt a spark of satisfaction at hearing the news. “Is she back now? One life for another? It doesn’t work that way. She’s gone … and no … no amount of _justice_ ,” a sob, “or _apologies_ is going to bring her back.” Rebecca’s face was a mask of pain.

She left the house when he yelled at her to get out once she started apologizing again. The woman looked at loss for what to do.

Stiles kept living at Charlie’s –John was unable to take care of his son- as the months flew by. Slowly, the little boy started to understand his mommy wouldn’t return.

His grandparents, John’s in-laws, visited regularly. Every time they came by, they stopped at John’s house as well. “You’re digging a grave for yourself, son,” they had said. When they had finally gotten him to stop drinking, barely lucid eyes filled with tears as they told him his son wasn’t doing too good either. “He misses her. He misses you. You need to come back and take care of your son. He’s … throwing tantrums.” And that did it. Some words are just like a punch to the gut.

About seven months after that fateful day in autumn, he came round to the Tenners. He looked dishevelled and tired, but all he cared about was Stiles. His son looked at him hesitantly with big brown eyes when John appeared in the doorway of the little room Stiles shared with Evan and Rose, Charlie’s two kids. Stiles ran to his father and didn’t let go for a full ten minutes. John was filled with shame. How could he have done this? He cried as he saw how his son was terrified of being left alone again, no, _abandoned_ , by his father. John took him home after that, vowing to never let it happen again. Stiles was now six years old.

It took time, recovering. It always does. Months turned into a year. Their small house was a minefield. For months he had refused to leave it, ignoring everyone’s pleas. “It isn’t healthy for you, John, please listen to me,” Charlie had begged. He now realized how damaging it was to stay. Everything reminded him of her. Every table, every wall, every cushion, all the pictures, all the clutter. Even the most mundane things, like the empty green pen next to phone. Everything screamed Claudia, and he had been holding on to it savagely. He knew what he needed. He needed to take his son and get the hell out of the place that was haunted by his wife’s memory.

“I’m leaving,” he announced one evening. Stiles was safely asleep in a big fort made of cushions and covers, joined by his two companions, Evan and Rose. It was nine p.m. and Charlie and her husband, Killian, and he were cleaning up the kitchen, the mess made by their children. Killian looked as if he had expected it, Charlie did not. “What? Where to?”

“I don’t know. I just can’t stay here. It’s …” He shook his head, hoping that was enough explanation. Killian put his arm around him and Charlie nodded, “I get it. We get it.”

She bent down and scraped some lasagne off the floor –Stiles liked playing with his food. She handed the paper towel with the orange stickiness to her husband, who took it and put it in the bin next to him. John couldn’t stand the domesticity of it all, but he swallowed his pain.

One week later, they left. Packing was done in a near frenzy driven by the actual need to get out, and Stiles sat on the couch, head moving from left to right and from right to left as he watched his father move around, legs dangling over the edge and bouncing them against the piece of furniture with loud thuds.

 

+

Beacon Hills, a.k.a. Fixing a Hole

 

Finding a new home is not easy. At first, John was obsessed with finding a home anywhere where there were no werewolves. Unfortunately, that no longer seemed to be possible. It was about 30 years after The Great Reveal, and the years had reduced shyness and unwillingness to come out. The only places that were void of the lycanthropy variety were tiny towns with about fifty inhabitants. As much as John wanted to avoid werewolves, he refused to settle down in one of those towns. The people were too narrow-minded for him, and his son needed contact, more than the average of five children could provide.

For about two years, the Stilinski family, now only consisting of two members, lived a somewhat nomadic lifestyle. As soon as John was aware of the presence of a pack close by, they left. Which meant they left often. They left dusty cities, cold cities, warm cities, large cities, and small cities, all over the West Coast.

Stiles hated it. John saw it made him restless, and this in combination with the fact that he was hyperactive didn’t bode well. John tried to soothe his son, asked him to hold on, “until we find our home, okay, buddy?” “But, daddy, I want to go home.” Stiles pouted and cried, slamming small fists against John’s chest.

It was obvious it wasn’t working out. On top of everything, he lost touch with the people he knew in Sacramento; some telephone calls were long overdue. And he cursed himself, _I shouldn’t have waited this long to call_ , when Charlie proposed he move to Beacon Hills where she was currently living with her kids. “It’s good here,” she said. “As far as I know, no large group of werewolves live in the city, and it’s a safe place.” John answered with a, “Mmh, maybe.” Charlie was annoyed at his hesitance. “Come on. What’s holding you back? Please come. It’ll be good for you and Stiles. Plus, you won’t be alone.” That thought was alluring. Not being alone. Two years now, he had been running, and he’d had enough. He told her on the phone it sounded like a good idea. After he put down the receiver, he went to wake Stiles up. “We’re moving to Beacon Hills.” Stiles’ face crumpled yet again at the news they would be leaving. “No, kid. We’ll stay there. I promise, buddy.” Stiles was eight years old.

Beacon Hills was a city in Northern California, chilly in autumn, cold in winter, cool in spring and hot in summer. He enrolled his son in school. He saw Charlie from time to time, though it hurt because it reminded him of Sacramento and that one horrible day. He rented an apartment. He tried to get his life together, for the sake of his son and for the sake of his own sanity.

He ended up in the civil service. The idea seemed good. As an empath, he had the ability to calm people, which seemed like a very good quality to have when working in law enforcement. He went trough the background checks, the psychological assessment, the medical tests, the interviews and eventually became part of the service. Stiles wouldn’t stop playing with the shiny badge.

Stiles grew up. Once a week he went to a therapist. The thought had been at the back of John’s head for a while, but he didn’t want his son to commit to someone if there was a chance they might pack up and leave at any second. And they had, too often. It was bad parenting and he berated himself for it. So, he sent Stiles to therapy. He didn’t like it: he didn’t understand why he had to talk to a stranger, when he could just talk to his dad about why he was moody and scared sometimes. But John insisted. Stiles obeyed, but not without some angry outbursts. After about two years, the need to see a therapist receded: Stiles was calmer –a relative term.

The happiest moment since Claudia died was when Stiles came home and announced, barging into his Dad’s room at full speed that he had made a friend at school that day. “His name is Scott, and he’s goofy, and he has a collection of comic books and he loves ice cream and-,” The babbling ten-year-old boy was jumping on his dad’s bed, _boing boing boing, boom._ The wide smile on his son’s face as Stiles got up was soon mirrored on his own. They would celebrate, he said, and suggested they go eat a pizza at the diner four blocks down. Stiles shouted a loud no, demanding curly fries instead. John smiled and said “Put on your coat, it’s going to rain.”

It was getting easier. John felt better. He rarely drank, he took care of his son. Charlie owned a bar in what she called “the dodgy part of town”, and he visited her from time to time.

Scott, his son’s new best friend forever, was a frequent guest in their home, which was now an actual house. The first day they had settled in, Stiles was running around the house exclaiming his excitement at the _hugeness_ of it. In John’s bedroom, at the back of a drawer with a broken handle, lay a stack of photos from back in Sacramento. On bad days, or on the worst day, the anniversary of her death, he would pour himself a drink and look at them. Otherwise, they stayed in their place, a coat of dust gathering on the pile.

Time heals all wounds, a phrase that had been said to him often by his in-laws and by his old friends, whom he’d lost contact with. Every time the words fell out of their mouths, he’d wanted to punch something or yell at them to shut up. But, after all these years, he had to concede: it was true. Time had healed his mourning heart. Maybe cell by cell, excruciatingly slow, but it had. Having Stiles made it easier. John was all right. 


	2. The Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, Stiles.

 

2011

 

“…entirely unfair situation which is frankly completely unhealthy because when has repression and hiding ever done anyone any good? Never! I can’t believe they get to prance around with their fangs out in the open, while we are forced to hide. And it’s never gonna change, you know. Not while we’re just sitting on our asses-,” _Stiles!_ _“-_ sorry, sitting on our lovely derrières waiting for something that won’t ever happen. Man, this is so unfair. The level of unfairness, here? Like, a pool of unfairness. A lake of unfairness. A friggin’ ocean of unfairness.”Stiles’ lack of maturity had been present from the day he had entered the world, and his father was used to it.

As a kid, Stiles had just accepted the situation, like most children innocently accept what their parents say. He had accepted it, because his father had said it was dangerous for them if other people knew. Stiles had a vague memory of seeing desperation on his father’s face.

But he was not a kid anymore. He was sixteen years old now. And he was frustrated. Even though the changes that were supposed to manifest during puberty, changes that indicated he was an empath, hadn’t yet come, he was frustrated: it was that unfair he had to hide a part of himself. Granted, that part of himself hadn’t manifested yet, _but it is going to, damn it._

His father was patient. He listened to Stiles’ lamentations, but the end of the monologue was always the same, “but, okay, I’ll keep it to myself. I’ll even keep it from my best friend. You better appreciate how much I love you, old man.”His father answered with a “thank you” and a sad smile. Stiles hated that smile. But, he decided, it was proof his father didn’t like this situation either.

Over the years, he’d pried loose as much information out of his father as he possibly could about what it meant to be an empath. The man across the table didn’t like to talk about it much. Stiles wasn’t stupid, he knew why. It was because of his mother. He had been too young to remember a lot about her. He could imagine a face, and he could sometimes identify the feeling of safety when he thought of her. But what he mostly felt when he thought about his mother was sadness, the remnants of her death. It was the same sadness his father struggled with on the bad days, or on the worst day.

The conversations they had were frustrating: “We’re empaths.” “What does that mean, we’re empaths?” His dad was not the best at explaining things. He had said it meant they could feel. “Feel what? Anyone can _feel_. What? What it is we feel?” Stiles scrunched his eyebrows and pinched his lips. They were sat on their living room couch –an ugly, but cheap horror – not watching the screen that showed a game of baseball.

“Well, … a lot,” his father had said, clearly at a loss for words.

_Oh, my god._ “That is _so_ vague, seriously. Not getting _any_ clearer.”

His father resumed slowly, picking his words carefully. “We -we feel. We can feel what other people feel. Being an empath is not a … a visible thing, like werewolves and their fangs and irises, it’s more something on the inside.”

_Ew,_ he thought. “Gross. I don’t want to feel what other people feel. Geez, talk about an invasion of privacy.”

So, they could feel. His dad explained that empaths could recognize other empaths, and that communication between two empaths could be quite special, seeing as you didn’t need to talk very much to find out what the other person was feeling.

“Seems kinda destructive to me,” and after a pause, “So, no lying about your own feelings, then, huh?” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

His father rolled his eyes, “No, son, not really.” He seemed to hesitate. “Well, we _can_ lie about feelings, but it’s hard pretend to feel something you don’t, or not feel something you do.”

Stiles huffed, “How poetic.” He apologized when he saw his father looked a little hurt. “Sorry, sorry, continue.” He motioned with his hands and offered a smile.

“Okay. Uhm …” His father was thinking, rubbing his chin. “Oh, an advantage we have is that we can quickly sense if someone else is lying. It’s very useful, being able to distinguish confidence from fear, and liars, usually cool on the outside, aren’t on the inside. It’s one of the reasons I joined the force.”

“Another reason? What was the first one?” Stiles asked, a curious look in his eye.

His dad didn’t budge on that one. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Well, not soon enough for Stiles. He couldn’t wait for The Change. The name he’d christened it was dramatic, _The_ Change, but he didn’t know what else to call it. He’d found out some more after grilling his father until he couldn’t take the 1001 questions anymore (one time, his father had semi seriously threatened to tape Stiles’ mouth shut, holding the grey roll in his hand demonstratively while Stiles had laughed and backed off). Super strength or speed weren’t amongst his special qualities. –“Damn, there goes my superman dream”- Nor was super hearing or an enhanced sense of smell. In other words, he had nothing in common with a werewolf, apart from being able to sense a lie. Wolves could hear it, empaths could feel it. Stiles had shouted a deafening “What!” when he heard the wolves could sense a lie. That wasn’t public knowledge. “An important piece of information, don’t you _think_ ”, he muttered grumpily once he returned to a normal volume.

Did werewolves know of their existence? The bad blood between some werewolves and some of the Outsiders was not a frequent topic of conversation. “We just don’t get along very well. There’s a lot of distrust.”That was all his father offered.

While he waited impatiently for The Change, his life continued as it had always done before. He spent too much time on the net and too little time on his homework. At school, he wasn’t the most popular kid. Who was he kidding, he was probably the least popular kid in school. Well, him and Scott. They had become friends at an early age, and it was a solid friendship. They were partners in crime. The number of times they spent in detention together was impressive. It was usually Stiles that initiated the mischief, but Scott always went along willingly. They were the best of friends, but Stiles never told Scott about his empathic abilities. He didn’t even have any yet, anyways. Lying, or bending the truth as he preferred to call it, wasn’t something he liked doing. But he was alarmingly good at it.

The Change came two months after he turned sixteen. Noticing The Change was less evident than he thought it would be. He’d imagined fireworks, trumpets, something fantastic and bold. No, what he got instead was an emotional whiplash. At first he thought it was his ADHD acting up. He was feeling completely erratic and emotionally unbalanced. It seemed to get worse when he left the house. The light bulb had pinked one evening while he was at home. Instead of doing his schoolwork like he was supposed to, he was listening to his favourite music. He didn’t know how long he had spent like this, simply daydreaming while silently bobbing along to the music, when black lines appeared on his arm. He yanked viciously at the earphones, raced down the hall, and shouted for his dad, who was currently peeling potatoes at the kitchen table. “Daddaddaddaddad!”

“What the hell is this?” Stiles gestured wildly with one arm to his other, marked arm, where the black lines seemed to be fading slightly.

His dad grinned. “That, son, is The Change, as you so call it.”

“Tattoos? Tattoos?!” he half shrieked.

“Calm down, Stiles, they’re not really tattoos. They appear and disappear.”

“What?! Like hide and seek or something?” Stiles was now twisting his arm in as many directions as it was willing to go, assessing the situation.

“No, not really. It’s something that appears when you’re feeling a particular emotion intensely. The more you feel it, the more there appear.” He put the potato knife down and looked at Stiles.

“Huh. Well. Wow. Wait, how the hell do you explain this to people? Oh, yeah, I got a tattoo yesterday. Next day you’re like, Oh, right, I got it removed again. Two days later, and then, oh, I decided it was a mistake so I inked my skin again. That’s fucking insane. People are going to think I’m insane. More than they already do. A whack job.”

“Stiles, stop swearing,” his father reprimanded, “And no, that won’t happen, because as far as I know, no one but empaths can see them,” he explained calmly. “You’ll see them on me too, now.” His father eyed him expectantly, after all, Stiles usually had something to say. This time, though, Stiles just took a deep breath and looked at his father, who spoke again. “It’s the way it is. On a happier note, you are changing now. Congratulations.” Stiles was wrapped in a bear hug as his father got up and then patted on the back twice. Stiles sat down at the kitchen table and his father followed suit. The smell of peeled potatoes filled the air.

“Time for you to get to know Charlie a little better,” said his dad as he took a potato and resumed getting dinner ready. Stiles knew Charlie. Sort of. He knew she was an empath, he knew she owned a bar. There were only a handful of times he had been inside. His father looked up and said, “She knows a lot about this stuff, and can explain it better than me.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, good. Good, good, good.” The sounds of the clock ticking filled the kitchen. “I assume this is why I’ve been feeling so,” he looked for the right word, complete with hand gestures and lip pursing, “emotional, lately? Honestly, loopy couple of weeks.”

The answer was a chuckle along with, “Yes, that is probably it.”

Stiles finally sat down opposite of him, no longer walking around aimlessly in the kitchen. “Well, that explains it. It was so weird. Like, last week, I was in class and this girl got scolded pretty badly by Coach Cupcake, she almost started crying. And I was on the verge of sprouting tears too, it was completely disturbing, Jesus.”

“Very empathic,” his dad commented.

Stiles snorted. “Great, that’s what’s in store now? Crying when other people are crying? Seems very like a very stable way to go through high school. Let alone _life_.”

“That’s why you’re going to Charlie. You’re going to have to learn to control it, Essie, the quicker the better, before you’re emotionally wrung out.” Sometimes his father called him Essie. It was a thing.

“So it’s gonna get more intense?”

“Yes.”

Stiles groaned at that.

“I thought you wanted your abilities,” his father reminded him with a grin, “One bump in the road, and you want out, little man?”

“No, I never said that! It’s just, it’s different than I thought it was going to be. I’ve been feeling kinda unhinged these past few weeks. Oh, my god, I’m stuck in a school full of damn hormone spewing teenagers! No wonder I’m going nuts.”

His dad smiled comfortingly. “It’ll get better, trust me.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asked hopefully.

“Yeah.”

They ate stuffed potatoes and it was delicious.

 

+

 

The next morning, before he went off to school and the Sheriff to the station, his dad reminded him again to watch out for what he called their Kryptonite. Nods were exchanged, and they both remembered a conversation they’d had a few months back.

His dad had said that, usually, they had no real danger to being found out. The tattoos weren’t visible to the natural human eye, nor the supernatural wolves’. They didn’t look different and they didn’t act differently from regular humans. There was an exception, though: Stiles’ loud snort when his father told him gold was their “poison” stayed engraved in his memory. Stiles still couldn’t get over it. _Gold_.

“Yeah, son, pretty much my reaction when I first heard it as well. But trust me, it’s really not that funny. Under no circumstances should you get that stuff in your system. We can touch it, but not for long.”

“Well, what happens after … long?”

_After long_ , slowly their appearance started to alter just a little bit. John had never tried it himself, but his parents had explained it to him. It was as if all the angles of your body became sharper. Grossly defined cheekbones, crooked fingers, sharp nails, and bright, piercing eyes that seemed to burn you. And then, the tattoos became visible. A strange, unnatural, frightening sight. Stiles noticed again how his father’s wedding ring was silver. When he’d asked after it, his dad had said that it contained zero trace of gold. Stiles laughed and said gold wasn’t his dad’s colour, anyway.

“Wait, and what happens when it gets into your system directly? How the fuck _–Stiles!-_ fine, how the fudge does that even happen?”

His father had shrugged and had gestured with his hands. “I don’t know how, but it can. What happens, is what I just described to you, but quicker and amplified.”

“Goody.” He gave a thumbs up to a non-existent bystander.

An altering appearance wasn’t the worst part. Apparently, an empath with gold in its system would turn violent and aggressive, two adjectives Stiles did not associate with himself at all. The gold, however, didn’t weaken them, it only altered them. The yellow metal reacted with a certain chemical produced when the appearance altered and brought about rage. (Stiles’ grandmother had studied medicine, and had been curious to find out exactly what happened during a fit of rage.)

Ever so curious too, Stiles spent some time researching on the web. It seemed the human body does not digest heavy metals well. _Oh, my god._ _So you actually shit gold?_ He went on. Gold was used in the form of nanoparticles in diagnostic tests for diseases such as HIV or Malaria. Gold was used in jewellery, obviously. The ridiculous one was gold in foods. Gold leafs, gold battered into very thin layers of the material, was used to decorate cakes, sushi, chicken, you name it. It was also put in alcoholic beverages, Goldschläger, for example. He’d seen the brand in the supermarket once. Did people just have too much money? They’re crazy, he thought. Either way, he stored all the information safely in the back of his head, not to be forgotten. He still couldn’t get over it. Gold. Well, the upside was, he wasn’t rich enough to often get in contact with the stuff. Hooray.


	3. The Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, Charlie!  
> I introduce thee to: more knowledge on empathy.

 “Essie! I’ve been waiting for you,” Charlie exclaimed brightly. The woman was wearing a sleeveless black top and loose black jeans. She had on black nail polish, and her hair was a mass of black curls that reached just below her ears. The only splash of colour, her eyes being a deep brown that disappeared in the dark lighting of the bar, was a blue pendant around her neck, a turquoise stone. She had a round face and a round figure. She moved away from behind the bar and walked towards him. Stiles was enveloped in a fierce hug, which he awkwardly tried to return. It was quite warm inside, the heating was turned on.

“Yeah, sorry, blame traffic, not me,” he smiled apologetically. It was about four thirty in the afternoon, and school had finished a while ago. The bar was quite empty, a lone customer sitting in one of the booths drinking a beer and reading an enormous newspaper that obscured her entire upper body from view.

The bar, which was called Peanuts, courtesy of the small bowls of peanuts on every table in the establishment, was about a twenty minute drive from their house. He realized it had been months since he’d been here. He missed it –the place was cool. The inside of Peanuts was perpetually dark, but in a good way, secret and engulfing. There were green and yellow lamps –illuminating only a little so that it was difficult to see all the photographs on the wall – and chairs made of a dark type of wood, maybe oak. In the corner next to a narrow hallway there were a couple of deep green sofas. The narrow hallway led to the old fashioned bathrooms, whose floors Stiles had always thought were covered withthe ugliest tiles known to man. They were a colour he would put somewhere between barf and snot. _Lovely_.

“How’s your father doing?” she asked, eyeing him critically. She took his arm and led him to the narrow hallway, which was also the way to her small office. It was in the same style as the bar itself, albeit a little less dark. Stiles had often thought she must be loaded. A single mother owning a large bar, having to take care of two children? With his big mouth, he’d flat out asked her once, when he was younger. His dad had smacked the back of his head, but she had smiled sadly and said it was all right. She, like his father, had lost her spouse a few years after they moved to Beacon Hills. Killian, her late husband, had in fact been loaded, and had left her the money. After having asked about it, Charlie had been sad for the rest of the visit. He remembered she had looked at his dad and said they really had the worst of luck. Sometimes Stiles cursed his curiosity.

Stiles sat down in one of the red chairs and answered her question, “Yeah, he’s, uh, he’s doing good. Working a lot, protecting the citizens of the city, the civic duty.”

She leaned against the desk, smiling at him. “It’s been a while.”

“Yup. Sorry. You know how it gets.”

Charlie shrugged her shoulders and nodded. “But let’s not dive into sad talk. I hear you’re becoming a grownup.”

Stiles felt embarrassed. “I guess so.” Why did he have to feel uncomfortable so much of the time?

“Well, well, I’m proud of you! I’m assuming you’re bursting with energy, dying to know all about it?” She slapped her hands on her legs, the sound loud in the room before Stiles spoke.

“I am,” he declared. “Dad doesn’t talk all that much about it, so, yeah, … I am. And he told me you’d be able to fill me in.” She pushed herself off the desk and sat in the chair next to him.

“Absolutely, happy to help. As you know, Rose is an empath as well, and I talked to her a bit about it yesterday, and she’s agreed to help your training.” Stiles barely remembered Rose and Evan from his childhood. Rose was already out of school, but Evan was in his year. Stiles knew the guy a bit. He’d see him in the hallways of Beacon Hills High from time to time and shared a few classes with him, English, Geography and PE. They weren’t exactly close friends, but they hung out when Stiles and his dad visited the bar. Evan was on the basketball team and unlike his sister was not an empath. He was impossibly tall, but owned his gangly-ness. Stiles was jealous. _No, envious_ , he told himself. A prettier emotion.

“Training, huh?” he repeated, turning his thoughts back to her. “Yeah, Dad said something about learning to control it.” He readjusted himself so that he was fully facing her. He was toying absentmindedly with the strings of his grey and blue striped hoodie.

“Definitely. And you’re going to need it.” He made a face of indignation. “We all have trouble with it at first,” she said in a placating manner, “and I don’t really know how your ADHD is going to affect it, but I’m sorry to say I’m not too optimistic about that.” She patted his forearm.

Stiles made a deflated sound, “Great.” Just great.

“Sorry, Essie.”

“Why do you actually call me Essie?” Why he was only asking this now, he didn’t know. But, whatever, today was all about asking questions, anyways.

“Because, you were such a _tiny_ baby. Barely weighed anything! A small version of you. A small ‘S’. Your parents just kind of adopted the nickname. I may not call you by your real name,” he shuddered, “but I know it starts with an S. Plus, why you would choose Stiles is beyond me.” Stiles had barely any memories of his life in Sacramento. But his Dad had told him they had always been very close with the Tenner family. The nickname didn’t bother him.

Charlie inhaled deeply, “Okay, to business. Fire away, what are your questions?”

“Weren’t you just gonna fill me in on everything?” That sounded lazy of him, he knew.

She let out a huff, “Knowing you, you probably have a million questions, so I figured we start there.”  

Where to start? He figured if he forgot anything, he’d just ask her another time.

“Okay,” he began, “uhm, …, do many people actually know of our existence?”

Charlie paused for a moment. The soft music from the bar barely reached beyond the closed wooden door. Was that Queen?

“Mmh… I know that there isn’t a lot of factual, correct information on us out there, which reminds me, I have a book lying upstairs somewhere,” the Tenners lived on the first floor, “you might want to read. But most of what is in there, I’ll probably already have told you or you’ll already know.” Her brows creased. “The thing is, we’re not that many, I think. So, I don’t think many people know anything. Those who do know something are mostly werewolves.”

“And is that a bad thing, or a good thing?”

“In most cases it’s bad, I would say. I assume you know werewolves can sense a lie?”

Stiles nodded, his knee bobbed along. “Yeah, and so should the rest of the world.”

“Well, yes. Either way, they’re not that keen on being lied to,” she shook her head, “what am I saying, _nobody_ likes being lied to. But the thing is, _they_ can actually tell when being lied to.” She was quiet for a moment, and Stiles was tempted to say something, but he could tell she was preparing to speak.

“Nobody likes to have their minds messed with. After all-,”

“What do you mean, _messed with_?” He was interrupting her, but he didn’t care. The term had thrown him off.

“Has your dad told you about what it is we can actually do?” she asked.

Stiles replied that yes, he had. “Feel things, right?”

“Yes, feel things, as you put it. We get a sense of what others feel. That’s why we’re empaths, we can be in tune with others, feeling-wise.”

“Right.” It still sounded vague.

She noticed his confusion. “For example, if someone is getting extremely worked up, I can sense it coming from this person, and if I don’t control it, I might get agitated myself.”

“Does that mean I have to control it, like twenty-four-seven? That doesn’t sound doable. That’s sounds insane.” It sounded insane.

“It’s all about practice, Essie. It takes time, but after a while it becomes like a second nature to ignore it. Just like humans, we’re very adaptable creatures. The controlling it is a bit paradoxical. To not feel what others feel, we have to be able to not pay too much attention to it.”

Stiles twisted his fingers together. “I never think of myself as a creature. I just think of myself as a plain, regular old human.”

“You should,” she said. “We are different, but not that different, really. We just … feel a bit more.”

“But how are we supposed to distinguish what we feel and what others do? How can you ever be sure of anything? How do you stop your mind from resembling the inside of an insane asylum?” The questions tumbled out, but really, they were justified.

“Well, for one, what others feel is a lot less steady. It’ll come out of nowhere, and disappear just as quickly. Plus, it feels somewhat different.” He looked at her, an eyebrow cocked.

Charlie rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know, it’s vague. But you’ll understand what I’m talking about. Feelings are difficult to put into words. Feeling isn’t something you explain, it’s something you feel.”

He decided not to dwell on this. “Okay, okay. Okay, fine. Next question,” he waved his hand sideways, dismissing earlier confusion. “What else do we do?”

“Well, this is the good part.” Stiles couldn’t _wait_ for the good part. “We can influence feelings,” Charlie said. _Wait, what?_

“What? How is that a good thing? That sounds a lot like manipulation to me,” he spluttered, “Is that what you meant with having your head messed with?”

She scratched her neck and her solemn brown eyes looked at him. “Wait, I explained it badly. It’s … like two sides of a coin. On the one hand, we can steer people’s emotions a certain way, which can be very helpful to them. _That_ is the good part: We can calm people, ground people, when it’s necessary. It’s one of the reasons your father works in the police department, isn’t it?”

 _Ah-ha._ That must be the other reason his dad was talking about. “Right.”

“So, that’s what empaths do, sometimes. They use it in their jobs. They become teachers, or psychiatrists,” she moved her hands while explaining it.

“Uhm, not all people are goody two shoes,” Stiles pointed out, “you know, true upstanding citizens?”

“I’m well aware of that, Es, trust me. I’ve never claimed otherwise,” she brushed curls out her face. “Overall, empaths are kind creatures. But uniformity doesn’t exist. There will always be the ones who are … for lack of better word, evil, bad tempered, I don’t know.”

“So that’s what you mean, having your mind messed with,” he sighed. He got up and walked around, not really sure why he was standing up. He sat back down.

“Yes. And it’s not pretty. I am one hundred per cent against it. A mind is not a toy to be played with, or tricked into doing something. I refuse to control someone’s mi-,”

“But what do you actually mean, _control_ someone’s mind?” She hadn’t explained that part.

Her brows furrowed slightly at being interrupted. “That’s the other side of the coin. Next to being able to control someone’s feelings, we can sort of do mind control. To a certain extent.” When she stayed quiet, Stiles asked, “Can you give a little more specifics? Specifics would be helpful.” It wasn’t said in a mocking tone, just an inquisitive one.

She replied with clarity, like a teacher guiding a student through every step. “Okay, so, we feel what others feel, so we understand what others feel, yes?”

“I guess, yeah.” He didn’t sound too convinced. Feeling something doesn’t immediately mean you understand it, right? She didn’t seem to think so.

“And if we understand what others feel, we can influence what others feel. A specific example is, uhm… I don’t know, someone eating their food. And then you can trick them into thinking they don’t feel hungry, so they will put their fork down and stop eating. I’m using the word _trick_ here, I hope you realize that.”

He snapped his finger and pointed with his index finger, “Yup. Tricking equals not good, got it.”

“It’s a silly example, but it’s the basis of it. We can influence feelings so that we can influence actions, but it’s not easy.”

“Wow,” Stiles said quietly while nodding, trying to take in the information. He was frowning.

“I know my fork example seems harmless, but mind control can be really dangerous. Especially if you’re dealing with werewolves. You see, we’re bending reality in a way, like a lie. And their instincts go off like alarm bells.” She continued, “I could tell you stories involving prejudice, bloodshed and dead bodies, but I’m thinking your vivid imagination is enough.”

Charlie looked at his face. “Consider yourself properly warned?”

His eyes jumped up from were they had been glued to the floor. “Absolutely,” he said quietly. His mind had wandered to his mother. He wasn’t sure, but he was convinced her death was one of these stories. Charlie seemed to follow his train of thought. “Oh, god. I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” He half shrugged, and asked a question to veer off the topic.

“How do we know no one is controlling people en masse with mind control?”

“We don’t. For all I know, the entire world is under the influence of a very powerful empath. I doubt it, though, but I couldn’t be sure. I mean, it’s extremely difficult to control another empath, but regular humans are easy targets. And imagine how terrifying that is. Not to mention it is cause for panic, chaos, war, you name it.”

“Damn.” And wait, “But, so, we can’t be controlled.”

“We can, but you need some _serious mojo_ ,” she air quoted, “for that. In a way it’s a perk. We can hardly control or influence each other, some kind of defense mechanism, I suppose.”

“Well, good. But still, damn.”

“Yes, damn is right.” Charlie, unlike his father, had no real objection to swearing. “You understand now that no actual good can ever come of the entire population knowing what we are? I don’t see how it could ever work out. I realize I’m not really selling ourselves, but how can you trust someone who can manipulate you easily? Do you want to be hunted? Tested on? Because I can guarantee you, that will happen.” Her tone had changed into something darker and warning, if slightly desperate.

“Werewolves don’t get tested on.” He realized he didn’t say they weren’t hunted.  
“That we know of, honey. Besides, they have a Kryptonite that weakens them. We don’t. We have a Kryptonite that simply identifies us and translates as a danger to others.”

“Well, that’s not really fair to the wolves, is it?”

“Life isn’t fair.” She looked nonplussed.

Stiles let out a sigh, “No, it really isn’t.” But to whom it was more unfair, he couldn’t really say. He remembered the countless amount of times he’d complained about the unfairness of having to hide who he was, but he was slowly starting to understand the gravity of the situation. He was starting to realize how dangerous it would be if humanity would be confronted with something they couldn’t control. Because that’s what people do, don’t they, he thought, they try to control everything. The want for power and control, an ugly reminder of humanity’s weakness.

Charlie shook him out of his inner soliloquy as she asked him if John had told him about the gold. He nodded. Next, she asked if he wanted something to drink. A coke would be good. He went to the bathroom while she went to the bar. He stared at the ugly tiles on the floor. In there, the air was much cooler as the window was opened to ventilate the room, and his reflection showed he had a slight flush on his cheeks. He splashed water on his face, the faucet sloshing out ice cold water. The old metal was rusted and made a piercing sound as he turned the handle close. He returned, feet dragging in the hallway.

“How am I supposed to protect myself against using, uhm … my abilities, around werewolves?” he asked turning his upper body in the red chair towards the door when she re-entered her office, lightly kicking the door shut with her left foot. Black combat boots.

Charlie moved crossed the room and stood looking out the window, her back turned to him. It was raining lightly. “You’ll notice their presence. Again, it’s some sort of instinct, like a warning signal. It’s like goose flesh when you’re scared.”. It was turning dark outside. He _mmh_ ed. Didn’t really know what to expect there, either.

“How’s school?” She asked as he put the coke back on the desk, probably leaving a water ring on the wood. He lifted the can. Yup. He used his sleeve to wipe it away.

How was school? School was hectic and entirely unbearable at the moment, more so than usual. The final bell was a blessing each day. The piled up hormones and cropped up feelings (of both students and teachers) were driving him insane. Who the hell knew his math teacher, the quiet Mrs. Leylane, had so much pent up anger? The contrast with her physical appearance couldn’t be bigger: she looked like a sweet old granny, all soft colours and wrinkled smiles.

Charlie snickered and said, “Yes, we’re going to have to start training soon, you’re in the middle of a school year.”

“God, please, yes. Being a teenager myself is enough, I don’t want to have to deal with hundreds of other people’s problems, thank you very much. Ugh.”

She smiled, and shook her head, murmuring something about teenagers.

An arrangement was made. For now, they would meet twice a week to train using the space of the bar. Stiles wasn’t really sure why space was needed, but decided he would just see what happened. His dad had asked him to be home at seven thirty so that they could share a family meal. The time he had before he had to leave he spent on a stool at the bar talking to Evan, who’d come home from basketball practice. They cracked peanuts. Rose wasn’t there, so they played some Spit. The card game did absolutely nothing to calm his usual bundle of nerves, but it was fun. Charlie was working in the background.

At home, Stiles asked if it wasn’t hard to work in a place where there was chaos and fear a lot of the time. His father explained that it took a while to get used to it, but now it was fine. He was an older empath and was good at keeping himself and others grounded.

“Do you ever use the mind control thingy?” Stiles asked next, but he already knew the answer. His dad replied with the firm _“No_ ” Stiles had expected. “And I don’t want you doing that, either, Es.” Stiles nodded slowly while poking at his macaroni. “Yeah, of course.” After a pointed look from his father, Stiles added, a little forcefully, “I get it, Dad, I get it. I do.”


	4. Training

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles learns things. And eats peanuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts, constructive criticism or opinions?

A new chapter of his life started. Scott wondered where his friend spent his free time, where Stiles was when he was training. But, luckily, it worked out: Scott himself had started a job at a veterinarian in his neighbourhood, and Stiles had a “job” at the bar; working twice a week, cleaning up broken glasses, and mopping dirty bathroom floors. Sure, he wasn’t twenty one yet and could therefore not really work in a bar but he knew the owner, “and that’s the wonderful upside to having connections, Scotty.”Scott had visited once or twice, and for the sake of it, Stiles had actually been cleaning toilets while his best friend chattered away next to him. Evan had smirked at him from where he was leaning against the door before the guy went upstairs to do his homework. Stiles was not amused, angrily mopping the floor, leaving his best friend just a little confused.

Stiles didn’t know what to expect, with the training. Training, in his mind, meant lacrosse shorts, sweaty pits and a coach screeching in his ear, _Balinski! Stop gaping like a fish, and MOVE._ Obviously, this was not what was happening now. First of all, Rose was nothing like Coach, and it turned out there was less physical training and more mental exercise.

Rose was bubbly. She was expressive and loud, rather short and had a plump, chubby figure. Her wardrobe was the opposite of her mother’s; bright and quirky, as opposed to monotonous and dark. She had her mother’s complexion and features – slightly wide set eyes and a flat nose –, but her dark curly hair was dyed a honey blond. She wasn’t commanding or domineering, she was open and friendly, and very excited for him. Stiles listened to her as she babbled on about her own experience of the Change, the bracelets on her arm jingling as she moved her hands expressively. Her hectic nature reminded him of his own. Evan, on the other hand, was a little calmer, like his mother.

At first, Charlie tried to be present during training. But she had a bar to run, and customers to make small talk with. In the end, it was usually Rose and Stiles, while Evan sometimes joined them, curious and observing, like a scientist. Charlie knew a lot about empaths, being older, but Rose, Charlie declared, was just as capable to lead him through everything. Nobody objected, so that was the way things went.

Training started out oddly. First, they sat down in the bar and Rose asked him to focus on a particular person and determine the prevalent emotion they were feeling. It was a bit like trying to grab something in water, always a touch out of reach. He guessed, lost his patience, gave up and started again. Often he could distinguish frustration, but “that’s you, Stiles,” Rose told him.

It was easy to get a feel of a room. Different feelings melted into one, or balanced each other out, boredom and interest, happiness and disappointment, irritation and anger. But to focus on a particular woman or man was difficult, especially if they weren’t feeling anything strongly. The crying girl in his economy class was a given, but now it was hard. School gave the overall vibe of boredom and stress, an unpleasant combination that made his skin crawl and his eye twitch.

“Try her,” Rose nodded to a lady sitting next to an older man. The woman in question was talking animatedly, gesturing with her hands to the man.

Rose and Stiles had agreed that for now they would only focus on identifying feelings, and eventually trying to calm people. Mind control was left aside. “For now?”he’d asked. She’d shrugged, “I don’t know. Either way, I’m not good at that.”

Trying to turn his attention solely on the woman Stiles shook his head quickly, rolled his shoulders and shut his eyes. He could hear Evan laughing next to him, “Quit laughing, buddy, you’re not helping,” followed by a “Shush” from Rose who poked him in the arm.

What he could feel right now was amusement, but that was coming from Evan. Frustration from himself. But the woman, that was harder. He’d established some facts in an earlier session. There was no particular difference between man and woman, but there was something different between children and adults, though the latter he hadn’t had much opportunity to test, seeing as their training took place in a bar where kids weren’t allowed. That was something he’d worked out on his own. (He was proud.) A second fact he’d established was that it didn’t matter if he had his eyes focused on the person he was trying to sense, as Rose called it. He had been stubborn and kept opening his eyes, and Rose had lost her patience after a while, taken some scotch tape to keep his eyes shut. The sticky feeling was so unpleasant he’d promised he’d keep his eyes shut. He did. Most of the time. A third fact was distance mattered. The closer you got to someone, physically, (but emotionally as well, Rose had added), the more strongly you get a sense of how they felt.

It was difficult to identify the woman. Slowly, as he calmed down, as much as a kid with ADHD could, he started to distinguish distinct feelings across the room. It was very cool. Rose said that she was able to count the amount of people in a not too crowded room by “feeling it out.” Stiles wanted to be able to do that, but it was harder than he’d anticipated. It took long, confusing minutes before he could metaphorically grab hold of her. In the end, it did work.

“Mmh… Irritation… Some anger. Wait, am I…” he opened his eyes and looked at the table. The woman was smiling, still babbling on, oblivious to the glare of the man opposite her. “Oh, damn it. I focused on the man, didn’t I?”

“Sorry, Essie, try again. How about that woman there,” Rose pointed to the next table, “the one wearing a red blouse.”

Evan cracked open a peanut shell, a nut flying in the air and falling on the floor. His long hair covered his entire profile as he bent down to retrieve the peanut that had jumped ship. He looked less like his mother. Stiles recognized more of Killian in him, looking at the pictures of Charlie and him hanging on the walls of the bar. A longer face, straight hair.

The bar was fuller tonight than usual because it was open mike night. They’d been training for over half an hour, and his head was throbbing. They didn’t speak too loudly, in case anyone would notice. Not that people would make much sense of what they were doing. “Man, this is frustrating,” Stiles sighed. Evan offered him a peanut. He chewed it angrily, and let his forehead bonk on the table. “Okay, the lady in red. I’m focusing. Focusing, focusing, focusing, …”

There was a lot of distraction. People were talking, laughing, and there was music playing. Stiles had asked wondered –aloud – why they couldn’t go anywhere quieter, but Charlie had told him that he needed to learn to be comfortable with it in a noisy environment. Just because he understood didn’t mean he liked it.

“I don’t know. She seems pretty … neutral,” he offered as he peeped one eye open to his neighbour. Rose accepted it, “Yeah, my fault, should have picked someone less …neutral, as you put it. I’ll be back in a second, I’m gonna get some water.” She practically skipped towards the bar, leaned over to grab a glass and put it under the faucet, her breast pushing against the counter. Stiles had followed her movements, and zeroed in on the man sitting on her right on one of the bar stools, sandy blond hair and distractingly large ears. The man was looking at Rose, seemingly unphased. But Stiles concentrated and could easily find what he expected from the man: arousal. Rose was talking to her mother about something. The two women ignored the man.

“Are you going to the game this Saturday?” asked Evan. His eyes were the feature he shared with the two other Tenners, same dark brown and oval shaped.

“Lacrosse?” Evan nodded. “Well yeah, I’m on the team. Sort of. More like on the bench.”

“What? I didn’t even know you were on the team, man.”

“No worries, friend,” Stiles said, “Heck, I doubt anyone even notices.” Geez, he was selling himself.

“You can’t be that bad,” Evan said. He cracked open another peanut, offering one to Stiles, who took it.

“Maybe. Probably others are just better.” Like Jackson. Man, he hated that dude. And that stupid Porsche. God, what a douchenozzle. Stupidly perfect body, stupidly perfect girlfriend, stupidly perfect house, stu-

“Stiles? Hello? I think I’m a little insulted you think that dent in the table is more interesting than me, but, hey, whatever.” Stiles hadn’t noticed he’d zoned out. Evan smiled that effortless smile that seemed to run in the family. “Sorry, dude. My mind drifted. Shit, I’m so tired.”

“Hey, I get it. I remember when Rose started doing all of this. Never seen her sleep so much in her life.” That he could recognize in himself. He was sleeping more than usual these days. Going to bed before eleven wasn’t usual for him. But now, his crawled into his bed without his father telling him to.

Evan wiped his hands covered in peanut fibres on his jeans, “Don’t worry, it’ll get better.”

“So I’ve heard.” His father had said the same thing. “Hey, question. Doesn’t it bother you that you’re not … like your sister and mother?”

“Sure, sometimes. Sometimes it makes me jealous, other times I feel relived, really.” Evan shrugged and smiled again.

“Wow. Refreshingly honest. I like it.” Stiles took a peanut, placed it in his right hand, and tightened his fist until he heard the satisfying crack of the shell.

Rose sat back down and set a large glass of water in front of him. “Okay! ” She clapped her hands once. “Stay hydrated, and focus on the man standing next to the jukebox.”

Stiles asked again, “Are you sure it doesn’t help if I look at them? Like, their faces are a guideline, and the way they move and talk?” It was a sound argument, right? He thought so. He took a large gulp of water, feeling bits of peanut skin loosening themselves in his mouth. They were irritating, always getting stuck in his teeth.

“True, but it can also completely throw you off. People lie all the time.” She sounded strangely cheerful as she said it. She looked at his surprised face. “What? It’s true! Anyways, you need to learn how to focus on the core. Later you can look at the way they talk, move, etcetera.” She moved a lock of hair out of her face.

He closed his eyes. Evan took his hand, opened it and placed a peanut in it. At least, Stiles assumed it was a peanut. He decided to risk it, popping the thing in his mouth. Yep, peanut.

“Stiles, focus,” Rose said.

“Yes, yes, all with the focusing. Doing it, right now.” Evan snorted. Stiles ignored it. “Mmh…Well… contentment. Yeah, contentment.”

Out of nowhere, a loud toot noise made him open his eyes. Rose was blowing on a small paper party horn, hitting him in the face. “Congratulations! That was your fastest one yet!”

“Jesus!” he laughed, “How long have you been hiding that thing?”

“Since last week, but I only thought you deserved it now.” She leaned over and gave him a hug. Stiles was a little flabbergasted, and looked questioningly at Evan, who shrugged and gave him a hug as well. Charlie gave them a stern look as people in the bar were looking at them, curious or annoyed at the origin of the offensive noise. Rose lifted her hand in a placating gesture, “Sorry mom!”

 

+

 

Weeks passed like this. He got better, much better. And thank god, he finally succeeded in blocking feeling out that weren’t his. What they did was the following: they picked out the person in the bar that was feeling something strongly, and Stiles had to get as close to that person and try to block it out. It looked ridiculous: Stiles moving all around the bar, without a clear goal, attracting strange stares. But it did the trick, sort of. At one point, he found himself standing next to two people smooching. And as awkward it was for them, it was more so for him. He couldn’t help feeling excited -and it was quite strong – but in the end he managed to occupy his mind with something else.

It did the trick, but only sort of. Stiles wanted to get out of the bar. He wanted to find someone furious, and try to block it. He wanted to find someone shouting with glee, and try to block it. The latter he’d experienced during lacrosse. Well, it was less glee and more triumph, but his teammate had exploded with pride and happiness as he scored a goal. Stiles was on the bench, but was staring at the guy shouting on the field. He looked down at his arms, and could see a faint black line encircling his forearm. Another deduction: if someone felt something intensely, and he didn’t block it, it could make marks appear on his skin. He tried to block it while the crowd was cheering, and it worked. The mark faded, and he felt calmer. He looked at the bleachers, where Rose and Evan were sitting. He gave them a thumbs up.

He wanted to learn. It was a thousand times more interesting than school. And he got his wish: the two of them, though it was also often the three of them, as Evan usually came along, started exploring Beacon Hills.

The first time he actively tried to feel, really feel _everything_ in a big crowd, it went catastrophically. True, during that lacrosse game he’d focused on a particular person, but everywhere he went, he made sure he wouldn’t be engulfed in the mass of feelings in a crowd, in school or on the field. The truth was, he’d been staying at home more in the past few months than ever before.

But now, they were in the heart of the city. It was in the afternoon, and the streets were busy. Stiles lost focus, and started feeling _everything_ and it drove him mad. His head was aching. Rose and Evan noticed immediately and took him back to the bar.

“Okay. Let’s try something less high profile first. Sorry, that was stupid of me,” Rose apologized. Charlie came back with an aspirin and some water, as well as a stern look for her daughter.

“That’s okay. I was too eager, I guess. An eager beaver,” he nodded, a little tapped out.

“We’ll try again soon, yeah?” Her neon yellow nail polish flashed in front of him as she patted his head, he looked up and nodded.

 

+

 

So, they started off smaller. They went to a museum, where it was quiet and calm, and frankly, boring. Evan wandered around by himself, leaving them to work. It was getting easier. They went to the library, the park, the retirement home, and the woods outside the city. Stiles visited places he had never been to before and realized he didn’t really know Beacon Hills all that well.

Those were the easy places. After a month or two of easy places, they moved on to the more crowded areas. Rose took him to the swimming pool, the cinema and showed him the fancy part of town while pointing out all that was noteworthy and all that wasn’t. “I assume you’ve done this before?” He asked.

“Yeah, I was curious, just like you. Wanted to experience as much as I could.” She smiled that charming smile, a little lost in her own world as she walked ahead.

Then came difficult places. They went shopping on a Saturday afternoon during sales, and Stiles was ready to shoot his brains out. They took busses during rush hour. They got stuck in traffic on purpose. They went to the hospital, and sat in the waiting room for an hour. That was absolutely horrible. It took a lot of patience to block everything out, but he had two friends supporting him. It was getting easier, and his control was getting stronger.

After about six years since The Change he went on these training sessions on his own as well. Stiles sometimes went to the “bad” part of the town, and could hardly stand the overwhelming sense of depression and unhappiness that reigned amongst the decrepit houses and lonesome streets. He wasn’t as skilled as Rose or Charlie or his father, but he was making progress. At times, he still had trouble shutting off other’s feelings. It was overwhelming.

His schoolwork suffered. The first semester had been somewhat of a disaster, but his father hadn’t minded, as long as he would make up for it. Stiles was intelligent enough. So, the second half of the year, next to the training, he put in a little extra effort. It was his second to last year in high school. There were a few more weeks left before the summer holiday.

They didn't start the mind control, but Stiles was intrigued. Controlling a mind, a thing both dangerous and powerful, who wouldn’t be intrigued?


	5. Evan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Evan, the human confidence booster.  
> A lovely OMC, if I say so myself.

 

+

Evan

 

Evan wasn’t stupid, though his grades said otherwise. His mother had been forced into multiple parent-teacher appointments to discuss his grades, on the receiving end of both worried and irritated faces. The problem was not that he wasn’t intelligent. Okay, he definitely wasn’t rocket science smart, but he wasn’t dumb either. The truth was, he hated the school system. He despised how grading was done. How can you grade a poem? How can you grade someone in PE? It enraged him.

His mother was well aware of his viewpoints on this. The way he chose to revolt, by not participating in the system, made her furious. As any concerned mother, she wanted him to do well, get into college, get a job, have a decent life. But he would have none of it. As long as the system didn’t change he wouldn’t go to college and submit to the same farce again, only a lot more expensive. She thought he was behaving like a teenager, he thought she was overreacting.

Even didn’t really fit in to high school. He had friends, sure. He was part of a group -the basketball team-, sure. But he felt like he didn’t belong. The fact that the empath gene decided it would skip Evan didn’t improve the situation. He loved his family, he really did. Especially his sister. He admired her ability to stay positive, while he seemed doomed to be at eternal war with everything. Humour helped him through the days. In truth, it wasn’t all that bad. Figuring out who you are, as opposed to what you think you ought to be, takes time. It took him longer than he realized. By the time he was sixteen, he had stopped being –no, he had stopped trying to be- a bubbly and happy kid. He’d stood in bathroom one evening, staring at his face for while, thinking, _enough._ Determined eyes stared back.Over the next months as he changed into himself suddenly everyone told him he had grown up quickly, he was mature for his age. He thought to himself, _I always have been_. He grew more silent, but he was still friendly. Not as open as his sister, but not rude either.

His family noticed his metamorphosis, obviously. They had inquired after it and he had simply answered with the truth: he had stopped pretending. It had felt good talking about it, and even better when they wordlessly accepted it. That’s what family is, right? He considered himself lucky.

Throughout his personality change, he lost most of his friends. He kept playing on the basketball team and the friends he had on the team stayed his friends.

What he lost in friends, oddly, he gained in confidence. He was more confident being himself, even if that meant he wasn’t as popular as before. With a smile, he realized, yes, he was indeed more mature than his peers. It had been months now, and he felt infinitely happier, or, he’d rather say, more content. The fake persona had vanished.

His girlfriend dumped him about two weeks after he decided he would change. It was a public, embarrassing break-up that left him strangely indifferent. The girl was a beauty queen, the eye candy for boys and girls alike. She was smart, funny and gorgeous, a perfect trifecta. But the simple truth was that Evan hadn’t cared about her much. It hadn’t even been fun. It had been something that had just happened, and then everyone was so happy for him, congratulating him, smirking at him with knowing glances. He felt like he was watching a puppet version of himself, accepting the congratulations with a smile and a high five. It had never come to introducing her to his mother. He hadn’t wanted to, and the girl hadn’t asked. Evan felt bad, dragging someone into this who had no idea what he was really like. He figured he got what he deserved when the grand, public break-up took place. She had stormed off, yelling and insulting him with the rich vocabulary everyone praised her for, and Evan had stood in the middle of the hallway wondering when he’d been transported into a teenage drama film. Everyone had stared as he walked away, quietly.

That was another thing he had lied about to himself, apart from his personality. From an early age on, he knew he liked boys. The student body was not homophobic at all, yet he never felt comfortable enough to be honest with others. It was a matter of confidence.

His crush on Stiles was not instant, but not unsurprising either. Rose teased him about it, but he didn’t mind. He had known Stiles since he was young, but contact between the two families had been sporadic for a long time. That was, until Stiles went through the Change, too. His initial reaction had been jealousy. Why couldn’t he be like them? But he lived with it, accepted it. In accordance with his decision to be more honest with himself, he was honest about his jealousy too. Both mother and sister understood. And now he cursed himself; _why did I wait so long to talk about this? Why was I afraid they would react badly?_

Before, he hadn’t had much contact with Stiles. They went to the same school, but didn’t hang in the same circles. As far as he knew, Stiles’ circle wasn’t that big. Scott was a permanent presence next to the empath, and the occasional friend sat with them at lunch, but other than that, Stiles seemed unpopular.

Evan was an observant guy. Another reason he didn’t really get the best of scores was that he was rarely paying attention in class. He liked to watch people, things, anything that caught his eye. And Stiles caught his eye. He was stunning, but Evan noticed straightaway how insecure the guy was. He had the tendency to walk in a way as to make himself as small as possible, shoulders hunched and looking down at the ground. He noticed him staying out of fights, hovering in the background, while avoiding eye contact. He noticed him trailing back during PE so he would have to spend as little time with the other guys in the showers. He noticed him pining after Lydia, awkwardly making half-advances, for a couple of years. Later he asked him about her. Stiles called her a queen, but also a pipe dream: he had been in love with her _forever_ , but didn’t expect anything to happen, not anymore. “Why?” he’d asked.” Because, I’ve kinda stopped hoping. Or wanting, I don’t really know. Can we talk about something else?”

And then, Stiles started coming over more often to train. They spent time together, and Evan was pleased to see that Stiles really was not as insecure as he seemed to be in school. In fact, he wasn’t insecure at all. He goofed around and laughed openly, moved freely using his entire body and made jokes. Evan fell, and he fell hard. Rose and Charlie noticed it immediately, their empathic abilities a barrier in his private life. However, Stiles was new at this, and it took him longer, but he got there.

One evening after Stiles was done training, Evan made a move. He gave Stiles the chance to back out, hovering in the nervous boy’s personal space, looking him straight in the eye. Stiles didn’t back off. So, Evan leaned closer and kissed him. He was kissed back, tentatively, clumsily, but kissed back nonetheless. Knowing Stiles, Evan wasn’t surprised to be attacked by some sort of verbal overflow combined with the occasional facial spasm as soon as he leaned back.

In front of him, Stiles was moving his hands in the space between them, “Oh my god, this is so weird. I can _literally_ just feel how happy you are,” Stiles blurted out. “Jesus, sorry, that’s just the weirdest thing to say. Jesus,” he repeated, “shit, sorry.”

“It is a weird thing to say,” Evan agreed, leaning in again. “But I’m kind of used to not having any secrets about that kind of stuff. You learn to live with it.”

“Still, sorry. God, I’m making this so much more uncomfortable than is strictly necessary.”

“I didn’t realize it was necessary,” Evan joked.

Stiles rolled his eyes, “See what I mean? I’m awful at this.”

“That’s okay,” Evan kissed him again.

“Man, you’re always just so blasé about shit. Here you are, just being normal, and I’m rambling on like a fucking hamster. Man, hamsters don’t even ramble.”

They were in his room, previously working on their geography homework, which was now forgotten. It could wait.

It took a surprisingly long time to get Stiles to come out of cocoon completely, but Evan was working on it. Anywhere outside of school was easy. But once the threshold crossed, Stiles held back.

The first time Evan had tried to kiss him in school, Stiles had been so embarrassed, flushed red, gaping like a fish, and had practically run away as soon as the bell went, indicating the start of first period. There weren’t even that many people watching. Evan had even asked him if he was all right with, being kissed in public by a guy. He hadn’t known if Stiles was out as bisexual, as Stiles had told him one evening while they were messing around in his bed. The answer to the question if he was all right with PDA was yes, he was all right with it. In fact, he had even grinned mischievously. So the reaction Evan got from him in school surprised him. He addressed it after school.

“You’re way too self conscious, Stiles,” Evan said as he finished his burger. Before heading to Peanuts, they had decided to stuff themselves with one of the famous burgers from Al’s diner, a well known establishment in Beacon Hills.

“Listen,” Stiles said in an irritated tone, “I get it if you’re mad, but-,”

Evan cut him off, “I’m not mad at all. Can’t you tell?”

“I…, yes, okay, yes, I _can_ tell. I don’t know why I said that, but… I don’t know okay, I don’t know why I flipped out over something we do every day.”

“I’m telling you, Essie, you’re insecure. For some reason I don’t understand,” Evan said quietly.

“Way to sugar coat it, honey bunny.” Stiles was digging around his plate looking for a particularly curly curly fry.

“Just telling the truth, pumpkin.” Stiles cracked a smile, which he returned, openly. Evan continued, “I really don’t understand why, though. You’re beautiful, lively and damn smart.” He was hardly surprised the next words out of Stiles were:

“And also extremely annoying with my never ending babbling abilities, and fucking tactless and too curious for my own good, and-,”

Evan shot out with his hand and covered Stiles mouth. “Stiles, I’m not perfect. You’re not perfect. No one is. So stop feeling bad about your bad qualities. It’s of no use. There’s no need to apologize for being who you are. Don’t waste years of your life trying to figure that out.”

Stiles was staring at him now. After a couple of seconds, Evan took his hand away.

“ _Don’t_ make a joke right now.” Evan pointed his finger at him. “In fact, don’t say anything. Just, please, I mean what I say. Stop hiding, you have nothing to be ashamed for.” A waitress with red cheeks and raven black hair walked past, furiously scribbling something on a notepad. Evan saw her mumbling to herself.

Stiles inhaled, ready to say something as he leaned forward planting two elbows next to his burger. “No,” Evan warned, “not a word, unless it’s you agreeing with me.” Stiles let his head fall, almost landing in fries, and held two hands in the air but said nothing. The rest of the meal was somewhat uncomfortable, which Evan hated, but Stiles kissed him on the mouth before they left the diner. “Thank you.”

Evan considered his mission successful. It took a long time, but Stiles grew comfortable with himself. He held himself upright, talked openly and laughed in school just like he did with Rose and Evan. Nobody bothered him about it, or questioned it, and Stiles confided he felt at ease in school for the first time. No longer a gangly kid, but a confident guy. Stiles was growing up. Stiles thanked Evan over and over and over.

Sometimes you just need someone to push you in the right direction.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said update every two or three days, but working on this > work for uni. Ya feel.


	6. The Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter before shit goes down.

Scott was sitting on the opposite side of him at a grimy cafeteria table, poking at a heap of … something. Something slimy and orange. Stiles wasn’t really sure what it was supposed to be. It was nearing summer and the cafeteria was too warm: there was a problem with the air conditioning. Stiles saw too many sweaty pits and pink cheeks, makeshift fans and ice cubes –available in large buckets next to the drinking fountain- being smeared on skin, leaving shiny streaks of water that reminded him of slug trails.

Evan was sitting at another table, with the basketball team. Stiles didn’t mind. His best friend and his boyfriend got along fine. But only that, fine. Not great. For some reason, Scott and Evan didn’t really mesh. Sometimes, Scott would come over at Peanuts, and the four youngsters would spend time playing cards, or just sitting and talking. Stiles didn’t know why, but it often felt a little uncomfortable. Maybe because Evan was jealous, but Stiles highly doubted that. The guy was zen incarnate. Maybe it was because Scott was jealous, having to share his only friend, but even that wasn’t possible. Stiles detected no jealousy, just slight discomfort. Rose sensed the same, she told him once. They just didn’t click. Stiles was put out by that.

 

+

 

They were at the bar. “Scott, don’t eat that. You’re allergic to peanuts,” Stiles reminded him. Scott had been absentmindedly picking at the brown nuts. They had been watching an intense staring contest between the Tenner siblings, waiting for the first to crack. Stiles bet on Evan, Scott on Rose. The loser would have to imitate a monkey in public for twenty seconds. Stiles won the bet. He laughed with glee as his best friend scratched his pit in the middle of the bar, attracting the incredulous stares of a couple of tourist a couple of tables away. Charlie was not amused, casting a glare, and Scott apologized profusely as the other three laughed loudly.

The bar wasn’t too full, only a couple regulars, two of which were engaged in a fierce and animate discussion on the advantages and disadvantages of being a werewolf.  Stiles had half an ear on it, but was pretty sure the two older women were fairly accepting towards werewolves. Charlie stood behind the counter, drying beer glasses. She came over, green towel flung over her shoulder. “So, what are you crazy kids up to tonight?”

“Well, mom,” Rose answered with an air of pride as she gestured to the others, “I am going to make these kids enjoy their last Friday evening before they have to start cramming for their finals.” Charlie cocked an eyebrow. “Nothing too wild, I hope. I don’t want to have to answer to the Sheriff.”

Stiles said, “Not to fear, he knows exactly where we’re going, and curfew has been established.” Evan flashed him a smile.

“Actually,” Scott interjected, “I can’t stay that long. I have to work tomorrow morning.”

Stiles pouted and frowned. They left a half hour later.

Rose took them to a club to find music and ambiance. Scott had been worried, asking how on earth three teenagers were going to get inside a club –okay, so maybe Stiles had lied to his dad about going to a club instead of bowling. With a pat on the shoulder Rose had assured him he didn’t need to worry about anything, she knew the bouncer. Stiles wondered if she was telling the truth, or if she was about to test her abilities as a mind controller, though Charlie would frown upon that. Either way, he wasn’t going to ask her with Scott around.

The bouncer, a broad, burly man with extremely white teeth let them in. Stiles waved awkwardly upon entering and Evan just pushed him inside where it was warm and stuffy, flashing coloured lights disorienting him. The walls and the floors were black, the ceiling white. Out of enormous boxes came music that was loud, too loud, and he could feel the bass reverberating in his chest.

“I’m getting you guys something to drink, yeah?” Rose shouted. Stiles had to follow the movements of her lips to understand what she was saying. Before he could nod, she bounced off into the mass, heading towards the bar.

Stiles had been careful to block any feelings from the people around him. It was difficult, though -there were a lot of libidos running high and people getting drowned in the music, letting themselves go. Another prevalent feeling was unease, or nausea maybe. He guessed it must be the alcohol or the slightly claustrophobic circumstances of people pressing against you from every side. As it was, Evan was slightly plastered to his side, being pushed by the people passing them.

Evan had told him earlier he was not the dancing type. Stiles had not been surprised. Why had he come, then? A simple “You” was the answer he’d gotten. Stiles had made a joke to lighten the mood, of course. Evan had rolled his eyes, returning to his meal.

Currently, Scott looked a little uncomfortable while they were waiting for Rose to return.

“Relax, buddy,” Stiles said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Rose came back, in her hands alcoholic beverages (something brown and bound to be sticky) the boys certainly wouldn’t have been able to obtain. She was already twenty-one. Led by her they shuffled through the crowd to sit at a tiny table in the corner of the large room. Though there was barely enough space for four people, they squished together. Away from the mass, they could talk a bit, albeit still at a louder volume.

Rose engaged in a conversation with Scott, but not before pointing a finger at Stiles. He understood the message: train. They had discussed it earlier. He had wanted to go out, and she had said it was the perfect opportunity to get familiar with this type of situation. This type of situation being having all your senses prodded at: sight, smell, sound, and touch.

This time, Stiles didn’t close his eyes. It would look a little strange to Scott. Besides, he wanted to be able to get a feel of a room while he was busy with something else at the same time. So, he joined the conversation –Evan was watching the crowd – while Stiles let his senses take over. Soon enough, black line started tracing his arms.

They were talking about some movie, some actor, but Stiles had trouble focusing. The lines grew darker and thicker. He felt Rose’s eyes on him. Her large earrings bobbed along as she moved her head to the music while talking. Her arms and neck showed no sign of tattoos. Stiles wanted to get to that level: having so much control that even in a club full of people drunk, dancing, probably heaving in the bathroom, he would be able to shake it off.

He closed his eyes for a second, felt Evan’s hand on his leg and tried to focus. Evan was giving off arousal, which didn’t really help the situation. Lips touched his. Stiles opened his eyes, turned Evan’s head sideways and said in his ear, “You’re not helping me, here.” Evan smiled and didn’t say anything back, just returned to watch the movements of the room.

Minutes passed and Stiles was pleased to notice the lines on his arms faded. He tuned into the conversation. Why was Scott talking about his socks? Stiles shot him a look, _what the hell_ , and Scott shrugged his shoulders.

He slurped his drink. It made him even warmer, but a good kind of warm. He was a terrible lightweight. Scott had been eyeing some girl on the dance floor and Stiles convinced him they should go dance. “I’ll be your wing man.” He had no idea how to be a one, but figured the words would put his friend at ease. The Tenner siblings stayed back, while Stiles dragged Scott on the dance floor. The way they moved wasn’t what anyone would classify as dancing, per se, but they didn’t care. They had fun.

After a while, they went back. Scott didn’t have the guts to approach the girl, and Stiles was ignored by her, repeatedly. At the table, Scott announced he had to go. Rose offered to drive him home, his house not being too far away, but he said he would take the bus. He hadn’t taken his bike. He gave Stiles a high five before leaving.

Rose and Stiles ended up dancing, and it was mesmerizing to see how the lines on their arms started moving, almost in synchronisation. She laughed at him laughing. Or maybe she laughed at his terrible dance moves. He could also spot Evan in the back smiling, and figured it was for the second reason.

They ended up having to take the bus all three, Rose too drunk to drive. Evan followed him home, slept next to him. The Sheriff knew about their relationship, and was surprisingly okay with it. The door was to be kept open, though. Stiles thought that was ridiculous and also slightly embarrassing.

Evan was out immediately, tired after a long night. But before Stiles fell asleep, a thought kept nagging him. The same thought he’d had before. He didn’t love Evan. It wasn’t love, but it was something. Stiles couldn’t believe himself. Evan was perfect: a good friend that would be there if you needed him, an honest person, someone he could hang out with without feeling discomfort. But he didn’t love him. And it killed him, because he could literally _feel_ that Evan did.

It was a downside to being an empath. There was no lying. Actually, it could be seen as a good thing, but it certainly didn’t feel that way right now.

So, two weeks later, because Stiles was chicken sometimes, he broke up with Evan. He went to the bar on a Saturday morning, completely empty, dusty and dirty from the night before. Stiles hoped he would still be welcome here afterwards.

“I love you,” Evan said, simply, without drama.

“I know,” Stiles nodded.

“And you don’t love me.” The guy was unsurprisingly mature about it, and Stiles hated him a little for it.

Silence. They were upstairs sitting in Evan’s room. “I’m so sorry. I do, but not like that. Ugh, these words probably mean nothing to you. I wish you could just be an empath for, like, five minutes, you would know I’m not just saying sorry because it’s the normal thing to do.” Stiles felt in no mood to joke, for once. “I’m so sorry, Evan. I feel like shit.”

“It’s not your fault.” Why was he always so goddamn rational?

“Christ, how can you be so mature about this? If the situation were reversed I would probably be yelling uglies at your head right now.” He waved his arms, “Jerk, jackass, asshole, you name it.” His knees were bobbing restlessly. He was sitting at Evan’s desk while the guy sat on his own bed. “Why aren’t you yelling at me?”

“I’m not the yelling type.” He really wasn’t. Evan looked hurt, and unfortunately Stiles could feel just how much. Stiles groaned. “I know. God, I know… Are you going to hate me if I ask if we can stay friends?”

“No. But I’m not going to promise it’s going to work.”

It was a while before Stiles said okay.

Stiles trudged down the stairs, sighing. The rest of the weekend was spent in his bed, unshowered and feeling like crap. His dad was worried, but Stiles assured him he was fine. He would be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	7. The Fall

Months and months went by, each one less difficult than the previous, during which Stiles got used to his new self. His father’s uncommunicative attitude to it (the Sherriff still did not talk about it often) had only increased his curiosity when he was younger. What his father hadn’t known, was that when he had the opportunity –which wasn’t often – he’d badgered Charlie about it. Endless series of questions were asked to the woman when they were alone, but she had insisted on telling him about all about it only when he would change, become an empath. She had said she wanted him to enjoy his life as a kid, as carefree as possible. Stubbornly, Stiles had asked on. Later, he would thank her for it.

Though initially he had craved the Change, had been waiting for it, day after day, he had slowly started to see the situation in a different light: it wasn’t all that great. At first, all the feelings had nearly driven him to insanity. It was like a current, strong and bold, not to be stopped. Sure, now it was all fine. But in those first few weeks after the sight of tattoos on his arms had stumped him, it was horror for him. He was a bundle of emotions, set off at the slightest change. Though he tried to forget the memory, one particularly bad day he had gone to Charlie. She had held him, like a mother would a son, and had calmed him. No doubt she used her powers, but he didn’t mind. A gentle reminder that it wasn’t all bad.

It got better, month by month. His inability to concentrate did not improve the situation, but he had found out that changing the dose of the prescribed medicine only made it worse. By the time he finished his second to last year of high school, Charlie had given him an uncharacteristic handshake, firm, and had offered her congratulations: she was proud of his progress. After the dinners and the parties to celebrate another school year over and done with, which he didn’t really enjoy, he went home, stole some of his dad’s whiskey and congratulated himself. More than a year had gone by.

After rain comes sunshine, or so they say. In Stiles’ case, sunshine lasted for maybe a couple of months, before an actual storm hit.

It shouldn’t have happened. But it did. One single event and Stiles’ world was rocked, again. It happened a Monday afternoon, in broad daylight. His best friend, the clueless, sweet boy, had been bitten by a werewolf. On his way to work he was attacked after having taken a detour, necessary because of a series of road works obstructing his usual route. This particular detour led him through the woods, which ended in him getting lost because he was not familiar with this part of Beacon Hills. It lay quite out of the way. Out of nowhere, he was dragged off his bike, viciously. He remembered the sounds of an animal, low and threatening, before a beast entered his vision, teeth sharp and bloody. The blood was his. The animal ran away, for no reason he could understand.

These events were told to Stiles by a breathless, scared out of his mind, Scott. Across town, Stiles had raced to meet his friend and take him to the hospital. Though Scott’s fear and innocent confusion had been strong to say the least, Stiles ignored it all, pushed it down as far as it was willing to go. He needed a clear head. Also ignored was the fact that his best friend, _my god damn best friend, shit,_ might turn into a werewolf, which equalled bad news for Stiles. Even worse to think about and completely shoved aside was the possibility that Scott might not actually survive the bite.

While Scott was being examined by his mother and another doctor, Stiles paced nervously in the waiting room, unnervingly sterile white walls enclosing him. Hospitals still weren’t his preferred setting, too much sadness and desperation. A brief phone call to the station had led to his dad saying he would be there as soon as he could.

The two Stilinskis waited for a couple of hours, while a delirious Scott was resting. Melissa McCall, face frowned with worry, had already told them it was a matter of waiting, now. John told her he was sure Scott would make it out alive, “I’m sure of it” _._ Melissa had her hands covering her face and Stiles looked at his father, who nodded at him. An unspoken communication, but clear to Stiles nonetheless as he looked at his father with pleading eyes. Scott was accepting the bite. His father would probably already be able to feel it. In fact, Stiles thought he could, too. Though it was hard to distinguish the sense of unease that signalled a werewolf, like a threat looming in the background, it was not the same feeling as the suffocating fear that reigned in the building. It was a feeling he’d not felt before.

They didn’t talk about it, for now, but it was a conversation they would have at home. Meanwhile, Melissa was outraged at the attacker. Who was he? She? Where did they come from? Was it a feral werewolf? The law would have to intervene, surely? Whoever it was, they were still out there.

The Sheriff had gone back to work to get things in order: a search was to be done. Stiles saw, and felt, the unease his father felt upon leaving his son at the hospital. After being assured by his son, “Nothing can happen, he’s barely strong enough to sit up by himself right now. I’ll come home soon, I promise,”the Sheriff took off. Charlie showed up twenty minutes later. Obviously his dad didn’t trust the situation.

“You all right, Essie?”

Stiles huffed, “Me? Of course,” though he was slightly shaken. The waiting room was occupied by two other people, one looking bored and the other near to tears. She gave him a look that said she wasn’t convinced.

“Right, no use in lying, huh?” he groaned.

“’Fraid not.”

It was too quiet here, as if someone had put a muffler on anyything emitting sounds. How could a place feel so calm and quiet, while the exact opposite was going on in people’s minds?

Stiles grazed his hands over his buzzcut. “It’s just… Oh god, this is not good. This is a horrible, horrible, no good situation. Like, insane amounts of not good.” She stayed quiet.

He needed to talk. “But … He’ll live, right? I mean,” he lowered his voice, “I can kinda feel, well, I don’t really know exactly how it’s supposed to feel when there’s a wolf around, because I haven’t met a werewolf since I changed, so, I don’t really know, but, you … you feel it too, right? This, this … strange, kind of uneasy feeling, like the hairs on my arms are gonna stand up … right?”

Her voice was irritatingly calm, “Yes, Stiles, he’ll live. As a wolf, now. He has been your best friend for a long time, no?”

“Ever since we met. Scott’s like my brother. I always wanted one, but …” he trailed off. A nurse passed in the hallway carrying a tray with medicine on it. Stiles could hear someone talking outside, softly. Stiles focused on the fact that Scott would be fine. He would be fine, it’ll be fine, fine, fine, fine.

Both of them were thinking about the implication of Stiles’ best friend being bitten, but neither of them was willing to talk about it at the moment.

“How long, before he, uh, before he’s up and walking again?” he asked.

A slight pause before she answered, “I’m not sure, but it won’t take too long, I think.”

Four hours later, during which Stiles babbled to Charlie, hoping it would distract him (it didn’t), Melissa came in the waiting room and announced the fever was going down. She  looked extremely anxious, and Stiles could feel Charlie was trying to calm her using her empathy. It worked, he could tell. Melissa stayed with them for a while. A phone call had let Scott’s father know what was going on, and the man in question would be in Beacon Hills tomorrow morning. Stiles repressed the urge to give a snide comment. Melissa offered no more details, Stiles prodded for none as he could feel she didn’t want to talk about it. Normally, Stiles would have bugged on but now it was much harder, actually feeling what your actions were doing to others.

It turned too silent after a while and Stiles went in search for some food (he’d been ignoring a growling stomach for hours now). The vending machines offered soup as the healthy choice and an array of sugar bombs, which he thought was kind of counter effective for a hospital. He felt light headed and realized he hadn’t actually eaten anything solid since he got up, about eight hours ago. A woman in a bathrobe stood behind him, impatient, so he quickly dumped some coins in the buzzing machine and left with tomato soup and oreos.

Taking another path back, he passed the room Scott was in. The closer he got, the stronger the feeling on unease became. It was like a tingling under his skin, something wanting to get out. It wasn’t wholly unpleasant, it just felt a little off, different. Stiles had the ridiculous impression that sounds were louder, colours were brighter, smells stronger. But maybe that was because he was standing perfectly still, eyes zeroed in on the figure on the other side of the glass. Charlie and Melissa were still sitting in the waiting room, empty now except for them. Scott’s mother was asleep, Charlie was staring straight ahead.

Curious, Stiles grabbed a pen and a leaflet about healthy eating patterns from the plastic table in the corner and started writing on it, pen pressing hard. He wrote down a question: if it was possible senses were heightened if you came close to a werewolf. She looked at the paper questioningly before taking it. Stiles motioned to the sleeping form of Melissa, curled up on two chairs. Didn’t the nurses have a resting room? Maybe she was too tired. She looked it, dark circles under her eyes, and Stiles wondered when her shift had begun.

Meanwhile, Charlie was reading Stiles’ question, and hesitated before taking the pen from him, writing her response. It was unsatisfactory. _Yes, but only slightly._

Stiles drew a bold question mark, circled it four times. Out of her bag she fished a red notebook and tore a sheet out of it, the noise rough in the otherwise quiet room.

_I have no idea why, maybe and probably because they’re supernatural like us. It’s just our five senses, somewhat more intense. Not a lot, but a little, especially touch._

Sexy, he thought. But then the thought of him and Scott together entered his mind, and he pushed that thought away quickly. Not that Scott was unattractive- , _damn it_ , _I’m getting off track_ , he told himself. He took the yellow pen, _They don’t notice, though, right?_

_No. As far as I know_

_Can we shut it off, like the rest?_

_Yes_

_How?_

_Practice, as always_

_Great_

_We’ll work on it._ She gave him a reassuring smile.

It wasn’t explicit, but Stiles chose to believe it was her way of telling him she thought the idea of him staying friends with a werewolf wasn’t a lost cause.

Charlie stayed until his dad came back from work, finished for the day. Scott was doing much better. He didn’t look as pale as he had before, his breathing was completely back to normal and his fever was gone. Tomorrow morning, he’d be as good as new.

The three empaths walked out of the hospital in silence, parted as Charlie headed back to the bar. This all happened in relative calm, but once at home, the shouting began. Hopefully, the neighbours wouldn’t notice. They were in the kitchen, Stiles puttering around, trying to assemble a decent meal of some sorts. It wasn’t easy to concentrate on it, he kept opening the wrong cabinets, taking things he didn’t need and putting them back as they argued. He was peeling carrots, but had to stop repeatedly, not able to pay attention to it. In the end, he gave up and shoved the plank and carrots away and stayed seated at the table, while his father was leaning against the kitchen counter.

The Stilinski men were stubborn, both of them in equal measures. Stiles didn’t want to give up Scott, John didn’t want to lose his son. Stiles said Scott was a born sweetheart, wouldn’t hurt him, ever. John answered that werewolves were dangerous. He used the word _are_ instead of _can be_ , and the difference didn’t go unnoticed. Stiles lost his patience, and said his father was prejudiced. (John knew his son was right, but he held his ground.)

“You _know_ Scott. He comes over _all the time._ He wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Stiles half yelled.

“You don’t know that, son. It’s different now. He’s different now.” His father, just like Charlie, was infuriatingly calm. Was it a rule or something, as a grown up? Because Stiles could feel just how much frustration his father was feeling, yet showing none of it.

“And he will learn! He can _learn_ to control it! Just like I learned. And I’m fine now! There are laws, and organisations, and help for this kind of thing, he’s not going to be left to his own devices.”

“They’re dangerous, Stiles.”

“God, you’re a broken record,” he snapped. Immediately, he felt bad. It had come out harsh and unforgiving. His father’s face fell. “I’m sorry. Sorry.” Trying to avoid his father’s eyes, Stiles bent his head down. “I’m sorry, that was ....” He lifted his head back up, still not looking him in the eye.

His father took on a diplomatic stance, “Essie, I _know_ he is your best friend, but-,”

“No. No but. I’m not going to budge on this. I’m good at controlling myself, I promise.” He took a breath, “I promise,” he looked his father in the eye, “that I will never use mind control on him, I won’t-,”

“No. I … Okay, I’m not going to forbid you from being his friend,” _thank you, god, whoever you are,_ “but, one,” he held up a finger, “promise me you will not tell him you are an empath.”

“Why would he care?” Stiles groaned, motioning with his hands. It made no sense. If anything, Scott would probably be glad to have a friend in the same boat. Sort of the same boat.

“He’ll get in contact with other wolves. You will not risk it. Maybe he can be trusted, but others? We have no idea. Your hear me?” It was firm and left no room for discussion.

“Better safe than sorry,” Stiles muttered in mock agreement, but after seeing his father’s face he added, “Fine.”

The Sheriff held up a second finger. “You will learn mind control, starting as soon as possible. Charlie is, again, more skilled than I-,”

“What?!” Stiles yelled, face contorted, “Better safe than sorry, but never mind that, do the thing you told me is most dangerous?!” Was he joking?

“I _will_ _not_ lose another member of my family. You’re too _goddamn_ ”, now shit was getting serious, he could tell, “ _stubborn_ to listen to me and stay away from him, so this is how it’s going to be. You will practice until you’re blue in the face. I need you to be able to save yourself out of a situation, _if necessary,”_ this part he almost shouted, “by using mind control. They’re stronger and faster, I need you to be smarter.”

That seemed strange. “Mind control is about being smart?”

“It necessitates power of the mind, so intelligence, yes. You have plenty of that. So you will do this, do you understand?” 

Stiles did not like being told what to do, but this was a way he could keep Scott in his life. He didn’t have too many friends, and he wasn’t planning on losing his best one just because some idiotic werewolf hadn’t been able to control himself and gone ahead a perfectly innocent guy.

“Yeah,” _fuck everything_ , “I understand.” 

Stiles slid the plank with the carrots back, continued to peel and then started to chop them in small bits. _Chack chack chack,_ loud in the strained atmosphere. After a while he murmured “Thanks.” He didn’t receive an answer, figured his father was now reconsidering the deal they had made, so he said again, “Thank you.” 

The rest of the evening Stiles felt he was walking on eggshells. While sitting on his bed, feeling too jittery to focus on anything in particular, he expected his father to barge into his room, yell that the deal was off, they were moving. It didn’t happen. 


	8. Melissa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little interlude for Melissa. Next chapter: the Hales arrive...

 

+

 

Melissa

 

It was safe to say Scott wasn’t thrilled. After a night of feverous rest, Scott wolfed out, forcing nurses to give him a tiny dose of wolfsbane, enough to weaken him so he would present no danger to those around him. Melissa was allowed in his room only once the injection had taken effect. After that she stayed with him, holding a hand that showed no claws. Her ex-husband would be here in an hour or so. 

She looked down at her son. Scott was terrified. The bite to his side had healed fully: no trace left, not even a scar, not a blemish. Stanley, a nurse in purple scrubs she didn’t know all that well had taken off the bandage dotted with blood, probably foul smelling to a werewolf nose. The skin underneath was a smooth light brown. 

As a kid, Scott had never displayed any particular fascination towards werewolves. From time to time he’d jokingly said, _bring it on, I’ll get rid of my asthma_. But other than that, she didn’t think he felt a particular emotion towards them. Not envy or disgust, jealousy or prejudice. It wasn’t something that seemed to occupy him mind, but now he was forced into it.

Stroking his hand, his mother listened to him panic, trying to soothe him. Stiles hadn’t shown up yet this morning, and she hoped he would soon. Knocking on the door softly, her ex-husband came in. He was dressed meticulously, a suit and polished shoes, dark hair brushed backwards. Under his eyes were circles, though, and his skin looked slightly sallow. The harsh light of the hospital was doing him no favours. His face bore only slight resemblance to Scott’s, but it was enough to see shared DNA. 

Rafael, or Raf as Melissa used to called him, was standing on the threshold, unsure of what to do. The choice was made for him, however, by his son. Whether it was the dose of wolfsbane that had lost its effectiveness or if it was just a surge of anger, Melissa couldn’t tell, but she guessed it was the latter. Scott was on his feet in seconds, tearing out his IV, eyes yellow, claws out. Without thinking of the danger, Melissa planted herself between the two, facing her son, as she searched his eyes.

“Scott, listen to me, Scott! _Listen_ to me, look at me, honey.” She dared touch his forearms, slowly. Her son, who had taken on an offensive stance, she noted, breathed rapidly, shallowly, but made no move. Not forward, the way his instincts were probably telling him to, not backwards, the way Melissa was pushing him.

Meanwhile, Rafael had backed away gradually, so that he was now standing in the hall. Melissa applied more pressure and turned a reluctant Scott, so that he faced away from his father. It didn’t work too well: Scott turned around immediately, but, _thank god_ , didn’t move forward. She retook her spot, standing in front of him.

By now a nurse and a doctor had showed up and stood outside, waiting anxiously. A patient shuffled along, holding on to his IV pole, curious eyes glancing towards the commotion. Melissa backed away one step, leaned sideways, grabbing blindly for the needle that held wolfsbane. She murmured sweet nothings he was familiar with, not that she’d used them often in the years he had become a teenager, _I’m not a baby, mom, you’re embarrassing me_.

“Honey, I’m going to give you a small dose of wolfsbane, now, okay? Okay, on three.” Sometimes nurses or doctors would say _one, two,_ and prick without warning. She decided against it, not wanting to surprise him.

Scott’s features returned to normal, yellow eyes dimming, breathing a little stunted. He was still focused on Rafael but let Melissa push him towards the bed, on which he plopped down, now looking tired.

In the end, Rafael left without actually speaking to his son. He wanted to, Melissa could tell, but she said another time. Biting her nails while she watched him leave reluctantly, she admitted to herself she may have underestimated how much hate Scott bore for his father. She was no fan of him, either, but he had deserved to know his son had been bitten. “Once he gets better you can visit,” she had said, and added upon his solemn nod, “If he wants”. She wasn’t sure he would. A problem for another time, she thought as she walked back in the building, hair wet from the downpour.

Stiles arrived early in the afternoon with Charlie, a woman of which she knew very little except that she was an old friend of John and that she owned a bar which Scott had gone to once or twice when Stiles was working there. Scott raced to the other side of the room, again pulling out his IV, and hugged his best friend. Melissa noticed the woman tense up, as well as Stiles, and for a moment there seemed to hang tension in the air. But Stiles slumped in the embrace, mumbled “Watch it, wolfy, you’re going to break my bones,”followed by the shy laugh she was so familiar with and a _sorry_ from her son.

“Scott. Your IV,” she said as soon as the two broke apart. Judging from his confused face and then his sheepish smile, he really hadn’t noticed. She sighed and shook her head, as she beckoned him closer with two fingers and tore open a new kit. Some things don’t change. Stiles was watching the needle go in with dread while Charlie was hovering near the entrance of the room, a stoic look on her face and quite different from the compassionate face she had worn yesterday. The IV was in again. Well aware of the existence of anti-werewolf activists, she hoped Charlie wasn’t one of them. Looking at Stiles now smiling and prodding at Scott’s body, pinch, pull, poke, while asking, “Does this hurt? Does this? This?” she was relieved to see at least Scott’s best friend was not one of those who hated wolves.

It was regulation that Scott was on bed rest for the remainder of the day, though it became quickly obvious to Melissa that it wasn’t necessary at all: the paleness had left his face and he looked as healthy as on his best days. At five in the afternoon the two of them went home. She had been given wolfsbane and a recommended dose she had to give every few hours. Scott didn’t like the purple liquid and the weakened state it caused, but he liked the idea of hurting someone less so he agreed to regular injections. The substance would be necessary to calm a newly made wolf until someone could teach Scott how to battle his growing instincts.

This someone would be either a specialist, human or wolf, or an alpha. The latter option meant Scott would be part of a pack. The idea that he would gain a second family didn’t immediately sit right with her, but Melissa was a rational woman and knew that it was necessary. “A life as an omega was half a life,” she’d heard a wolf say once.

A day later the Sheriff informed her that a pack, a small one from New York, had contacted the station. This pack, by the name of Hale, rang a bell in her mind. It took her a while but then she remembered with sympathy why it sounded familiar. In a nearby city, years ago, a house had been burned down by a hunter with mental problems. The newspapers had said mental problems but after reading the specifics, Melissa had decided psychotic was a more appropriate term. The woman had disappeared and was presumed dead. The press was unclear about it. More than half of the family had been wiped out, human and wolf alike. The surviving Hales left. The story had been horrific, and had left an impression on Melissa. It was proof of what she had always felt: even after all these years, the supernatural and the natural still hadn’t fully accepted each other. “I won’t be like that,” she had promised to her son when he voiced his fears: his mother looking at him like he was a _thing_ instead of a person.

Now the Hales were in Beacon Hills, the Sheriff had said. Apparently, though John wasn’t actually supposed to give away information about the on going case, the wolf who had bitten Scott was a man by the name of Peter Hale. The Hales had been contacted by the care facility their uncle was kept in: Peter was missing. After a plane ride from New York, they had done their best to track their uncle’s scent, which eventually led them back to Beacon Hills, and more specifically to Scott. Putting two and two together, they called the station.

The next day a meeting was scheduled at the police department: the Hales, Melissa and Scot, two families suddenly united under unfortunate circumstanced.

“Are you going to be there?” asked Melissa over the phone

John didn’t pause and assured her, “Yes, I will. I’m in charge of the case.” His voice sounded grim and she understood. Though her son wasn’t wildly protesting his new fate, being bitten without your consent is not something to celebrate. She hung up and stared at the wall for a few minutes.

Night time was difficult: Scott was scared and though her presence seemed to put him at ease somewhat, he remained restless. While she sat in his room waiting for him to fall asleep, she was reminded of similar nights spent like this when Scott was only three years old –he’d been afraid of the dark, crying over monsters in the shadows. Only this time, he was scared of himself. Melissa hoped he would get better soon, knowing she couldn’t offer the help he needed, though she desperately wanted to.


	9. The Hales

It had been four days since Scott had been bit. Stiles had seen him twice, never alone. The excessive hovering of both Charlie and his father bothered him. Luckily the Tenner siblings were gone or busy: Evan was somewhere on the East Coast, where he was building houses for the homeless. Stiles had thought again, _he really is perfect, what is wrong with me_? Meanwhile, Rose was working her ass off trying to gather enough money for a trip to the Big Apple with a friend of hers. Though he missed them, he guessed that if they were present, they would hover around him like their mother. It was suffocating, like an octopus wrapping its tentacles around a prey. But he wasn’t prey. It was protection, caution.

His father hadn’t loosened up. Unfortunately, he was in charge of finding the guilty party of the illegal bite. Stiles thought his father would want to stay away from the case, but when he voiced these thoughts, the only response he got was, “I do care about him, son.”

Right now Stiles was heading to the station armed with a vegetarian lunch for his father –still steaming. The air was humid and warm, and Stiles was slightly sweaty. He parked his Jeep, locked the car and walked to the grey building, realized he’d forgotten the food, went back, grabbed the paper bag and finally opened the heavy door which read BHPD.

The moment he was inside it was as if he received an electric shock. He almost tripped on the stupid doormat, which had a piece of metal sticking out. Years and years, and they still hadn’t replaced the damn thing. The hair on his arms was now effectively standing up and he knew why. That same sense of unease he had felt when visiting Scott in the hospital and then again at his house, that same feeling he was accosted by now, only intensified.

For a second, he was terrified. Then he sensed out his father and felt only calm so he figured all was well. Regardless, he quickened his pace as he walked to his father’s office on the second floor, waving inelegantly at the receptionist, Brandon, while muttering “Food” and pointing at the bag he was carrying before climbing the stairs.

The offices on this floor were quite open. The abundance of glass permitted people to see what was going on inside. His dad had said it created a feeling of trust and acceptance, or at least that was the idea behind it. Of course there were some rooms that were more private, for various needs. Stiles had smirked and crudely hinted at office romances, which earned him a smack on the back of his head. A soft one, though. 

It was warm inside and Stiles remembered his father complaining about the never-ending problems with the air conditioning –apparently not only a problem at school. Stiles awkwardly said hello to some of his dad’s colleagues: Nadine Longvoyer, a tall woman with wide set eyes and ruddy cheeks, and Leo Stevenson, a man who seemed to always be inclined forward, which gave off the impression he was always looking for something, moving around hastily and clumsily. The two smiled back.

Turning a corner, Stiles stopped short when he arrived in front of his dad’s office. There were people inside and he could hear muffled voices. He could only see his father’s face, the rest of the company had their backs turned to him. Though he easily recognized Scott and Melissa, the three other figures were strangers to him as far as he knew. What he did know, however, was that they were werewolves. Electricity buzzed on his skin. Focusing, he tried to get a correct sense of what was going on inside of the room, blocking out all the rest. Awkwardness and discomfort, mostly. Scott was nervous, Melissa worried. And his dad, his dad was saying something to them, standing up and heading for the door, otherwise never shut. The people turned around to look at Stiles and he felt as is someone had put a spot light on him, five pairs of eyes on him. He smiled quickly at Scott, spared a flighty glance at the rest before being pushed along by his father towards the small office kitchen.

On the fridge was stuck a writing pad next to ugly magnets. The smell of coffee hung in the air, as well as something unpleasant, like food gone bad. Stiles snatched a pen out of one of the coffee mugs on the small plastic table, half jumped to the fridge, ripped the writing pad off, and started writing, absently walking back to the table. His father was already sitting. This communicating by writing, so as not to be heard, was becoming a thing. He wrote, _?????-_

His father “interrupted” him by taking the pen out of his hand. _The wolf that bit Scott was Peter Hale. Those were the rest of his pack._ When his father didn’t add anything, Stiles nearly shouted, “And?!” Instead, he gestured with his hands, asking for more information.

Before his father could resume, Stiles grabbed the pen, _can they hear us if we talk?_

His father shrugged, wrote _but just in case. And talk about something because it would be weird if they could hear us and we’re not talking._ He could do that. Stiles was good at rambling. “Right, duh. Anyways, so the doctor said healthy foods. So I got you some healthy foods, vegetables and stuff. Because that’s healthy.” His eyes were following the pen, _They’ve offered to train Scott, take him under their wing._ “And good for you. I know you hate the green stuff, the …uh… uhm… zucchini. So there’s none of that. But there is rice and … stuffed beans, uh, sorry, regular beans, I was thinking of what we ate Monday.” _Scott was unsure but Melissa convinced him to accept._ “Right. That’s good, right?” he asked, “The food, I mean.”

His father looked angry. The frown between his brows deepened. “I guess so, son. It’ll have to wait, I’m busy talking with the Hales and McCalls now.”

Stiles thought he had to ask for the sake of pretending. “Who are the Hales?”

“They’re here to help Scott, I can’t tell you more than that right now.”

Stiles huffed, “Ongoing investigation, right? Nosy Sheriff’s kid’s not welcome.”

“Yeah, kid. Thanks for the food. Go home, I’ll see you tonight.” The Sheriff got up.

“Wait,” his father said, and returned to the table, _Don’t go to Scott’s before I talk to you tonight._

Stiles let out an exasperated sigh, “ _Fine_ , but the deal is still on?” his face was one of expectation. The deal was being allowed to see Scott. “About the food, I mean.”

“Es, go home.” His father was halfway to the door, saying the words in a warning tone.

“No,” he pushed stubbornly as he bounced forward, blocking the doorway, “it’s still on, _right?_ ”

“Yes. Now go home.” So much for trying to bring a peace offering to his dad.

Stiles wanted to know more about these Hales who were going to be part of his best friend’s life. Feeling excluded, he left, but not without looking back at the office. The blinds, though not closed, obscured the view somewhat. He couldn’t see anything clearly.

Because he was bored, and had given up entertaining himself at home, he went to Charlie. Training for mind control had started and it was challenging. Mind control wasn’t anything concrete, and moulding your mind in a certain way was no easy task. There was one big problem: how was he supposed to learn to control someone’s mind, if there was no one to test it on? The first time they’d come together Stiles had said as such and Charlie was taken aback at his matter-of-fact tone. “Stiles, I’m doing this because your father asked me, not because I agree with it. I do not,” she had protested. “People are not tools for others to use, you do understand that?”

“Of course I do.” He did. “But I don’t want to beat around the bush with this. We need to test it on somebody. I know it’s harsh to talk about it like that, but euphemisms aren’t gonna help me,” Stiles answered.

He wouldn’t call it lying. He _knew_ it was wrong, but couldn’t help but feel excited at the thought of being able to _do that_ , control someone’s mind. Being moral wasn’t his forte, but this was serious. Sometimes, he imagined being on the other end of things, being an innocent bystander whose mind was being controlled by someone else. It didn’t feel too good. He’d seen enough films, read enough books to know it didn’t end well. Hello, Big Brother. As long as he was fully aware of what he was doing, and acknowledged it was wrong, he figured he had nothing to worry about. And of course, he would only control minds if it was necessary.

That was, if he ever managed to actually do it. True, they had only worked on this twice, there having passed only four days since Scott got bit. During those two lessons, nothing had happened. Stiles had sat, red faced and looking constipated, trying and trying and trying and _trying_ again, but he didn’t succeed. 

Charlie had said that empaths weren’t very susceptible to mind control of other empaths, a type of built-in defence mechanism. It took an enormous amount of effort. Charlie felt wrong choosing other people as test rats for mind control so she offered herself up. Stiles had jokingly said, “Too bad Evan isn’t here, he woul-,”

“Do not finish that sentence,” she’d threatened, “He’s not to be played with.” He was taken aback at her sharp tone. She added more calmly, “Sorry. I’m serious, though, Essie, don’t ever do that to him.”

“Of course, no, I was just kidding, sheesh, protective mama bear,” he said quickly. 

The first task was simple, as simple as it could be. Charlie was standing in the middle of the room. What Stiles had to do was make her move. He was supposed to convince her she wanted to get a glass of water so that she would walk to the bar.

For this type of training they got together when the bar was still closed. It was dark and dusty inside, rays of sunlight pouring in through the cracks of the shutters. Why she felt the need to close the blinds all the time, he didn’t know. Part for the mystique of the bar, probably. But more probable was that she wanted to avoid people looking inside.

Stiles tried to make her move but she didn’t budge, feet planted firmly on the floor. During the year she had shown him some yoga poses and had taught him some breathing exercises to stay calm and focused. Yoga and Stiles didn’t really mesh, everyone who had seen him at it could attest to that fact. But Charlie didn’t care: she told him to sit on the floor with his knees and toes touching the floor and stretch his arms alongside his ears. She informed him it was called the child pose and he wanted to snap something childish but refrained. He felt completely ridiculous and did not like it one bit. The beating of his heart was loud to his own ears, and he could feel his blood pumping.

Next, he sat straight up, eyes closed, attempting a full lotus –feet resting on his knees as he kept his back straight and breathed. Supposedly one could hold this position for a long time, allowing complete relaxation. At first, it had hurt his knees when he stayed like that for too long a period of time. Charlie had told him to do it every day or even twice a day for a length of time to get his body used to it. True to her word, the discomfort lessened.

Every couple of minutes during training, Charlie had to shush him. He lost his patience, got distracted, _I need to pee, hey that’s a funny photograph on the wall, what do you think is the single worst sin, I’m bored with this, this isn’t working._ She shushed, he hushed. Most of the time, anyway.

It was the third time they were meeting for exercising mind control. He was still holding the lotus pose and Charlie was still standing ten feet away from him, unmoving as if turned to stone. Stiles let out an immense groan of frustration, almost a wail, and let himself fall backwards resulting in a loud bonk as his head collided with the floor, “Ouch.” He put his two hands on his face, dragging them down. His face resembled a tragedy mask.

“Stiles,” she said sternly. “You’ve only been trying for five minutes.”

“And each minute feels like a century, _god, this is annoying._ ”

She left her spot and stood beside the limp body on the floor. Stiles was red in the face again. “Stiles, this is no pick-nick for me either, okay? I have a bar to run, and I’m putting time in training you, damn it, so I expect you to do the effort, too, okay?”

“I’m _doing_ the effort! I’m _trying_ to get you to move, it’s just not working! Trying to make you think you’re thirsty is about as easy as trying to get a deaf kid to dance to Billy Jean, okay? This is fucking useless.” Needless to say, Stiles wasn’t coping too well.

“And I warned you it would be difficult. You’re behaving like a teenager.”

He reminded her, “I _am_ one.”

Stiles didn’t get up when she asked him to. She came back half a minute later with a glass of water, set it next to him. “That was not the mind control, honey. I was fully aware I was getting you water. I’m still not thirsty.”

“Close enough,” he whined.

“Not nearly close enough.”

“Not even in the vicinity? Like a little bit? Like in the same room, house, whatever?”

“No, Es.” He groaned, took the water and gulped it down. “Okay,” she said, “let’s see if you can get me to do the same thing.”

He couldn’t.

 

+

 

He returned home, defeated and tired as hell and settled for some mindless TV. Though Stiles had promised not to go see Scott until his dad was home, he had not been forbidden to give his best friend a call. That’s how he got all the details.

Scott had been bitten by a man named Peter Hale, uncle to the three Hales that would be his pack. Laura Hale was the alpha, her two siblings, Cora and Derek, were Betas. Scott would no longer be an omega but a beta, which would improve his control. Scott told Stiles it all “felt unreal, I don’t even know these people, and they’re gonna be, like, ‘pack’. It’s weird.” Peter was still out there, and the police department had agreed to let the wolves sniff Peter out, “good word pun, man, I’m proud”, and take care of him, “Whoa, Scotty, what do you mean, _take care of him_?” Scott meant kill. His best friend didn’t feel comfortable with that, Stiles didn’t have to hear his voice to know he wouldn’t be.

“Kill him? As in dead?”

“As in dead,” Scott confirmed.

“That’s … a little …  crazy.”

“That’s what I said! But apparently, it’s done that way in the, uh, werewolf world or whatever. Like, they have to kill one of their own if they turn wild. And your dad agreed with it.” Though he was disgusted at himself for thinking it, Stiles immediately thought, _of course he did._

“He did?” Stiles asked weakly.

“Yeah, man. Guess he didn’t want any humans in the crossfire. I mean, they- I mean, wow, I mean _we_ can heal from a fight. You, on the other hand …”

“Right. Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

It was quiet for a while.

“So, you’ve been taken under their wing, bro?” Stiles asked, brain not taking in whatever was on the TV screen.

Scott laughed quietly. “Yeah. That’s so weird. But also for the best, I guess. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Mmh-mmh,” Stiles agreed. “What are they like, them wolves?”

“Intimidating. Seriously. Laura seems really nice, but the other two, I don’t know. Eyes like daggers, dude. Scary as shit. Mom said the same to me afterwards. I guess I’ll see how they turn out. Haven’t really hung out with them yet.”

“You’ll keep your best bud updated?” Stiles was stretching out on the couch, yawning widely.

“Will do, definitely. Dude, do you know I can hear everything they’re saying on your TV?”

Stiles laughed, amazed. Scott repeated every word he heard with a nasal voice.

“ _God, Tammy is such a bitch. She won’t stop complaining, and Ralph is even worse._ Dude, what the hell are you watching?”

“Bad reality TV,” Stiles admitted without shame. “Those people have a hard life, you know.”

“Yeah, real hard, whining about a freakin’ boat party.”

“It’s a tough life, Scotty,” Stiles said.

Scott snickered. “Well, I gotta give Deaton a call, I probably won’t go to work for a couple of weeks.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself, huh. And don’t go feral and kill your mother in her sleep.”

“Thanks,” he said sarcastically, “that’s really sound advice. See ya, dude.”

“Bye. And good night, don’t let the werewolves bite, oh wait, they already did!” He returned to crappy TV.

 

+

 

The conversation with his father was rather fruitless in his opinion. His dad told him roughly what Scott had told him an hour before.

“And you agreed, letting the Hales _take care_ of Peter.” His tone wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t.

“Yes. I weighed the pros and cons, and it seemed like the best solution. They can rise back from getting beaten to a pulp, we can’t.”

“And this doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that it would mean having one less werewolf in Beacon Hills?” he asked.

His father did not look amused. “No, Stiles, it doesn’t. It’s safer. Safety first.”

Stiles had trouble accepting that and he felt guilty for doubting his father’s motives. “Okay,” he offered, in the end. Not really okay, though. 

He was about to head upstairs when his dad said, “And son, one more thing. I don’t want you hanging out with these Hales. I don’t know what kind of wolves they are.”

Stiles frowned. “It’s going to be kind of impossible to never see them, Scott _is_ my best friend after all.” His father narrowed his eyes, “Fine,” he said tonelessly, “but promise me, not more than necessary, okay? I’m serious, Stiles.” Stiles was losing count of the amount of promises he was keeping, now. “Fine,” he promised, equally toneless. They were both tired and not in a good mood.

Stiles spent another fifteen in the lotus position, trying his best to clear his mind. It didn’t work. He gave up, and instead occupied his time shredding the piece of paper his father and he had written on at the station. Opening a window, he burned the remains in a tiny glass bowl, a pitcher of water on his desk just in case. The flames were strangely calming.


	10. Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sat on a patch of grass away from the rest of the tombstones, small vaults, and walls covered in plaques with the names of the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At one point, he is speaking of his first encounter with the Hales -not taking into account the Sheriff's station-, but no worries, you will definitely get to read that bit soon.

Today was the worst day. Today was that day his father remained mute, either drowning himself in whiskey in the kitchen or locked up in his room going through heart-breaking photographs of their days in Sacramento. Stiles always took this particular day to visit the cemetery. Her gravestone lay in Sacramento, and on the rare occasions they travelled there they put flowers next to the grey square. The first few years they were moving around after her death the gravestone was rarely visited. They were often too far away, but mostly the reason why they didn’t, was that his father couldn’t bear to. Stiles had always wanted to go. It was a way to be close to his mother, even though she was gone.

The cemetery of Beacon Hills was a half hour drive away. Though no gravestone of his mother was available, Stiles went each year. He sat on a patch of grass away from the rest of the tombstones, small vaults, and walls covered in plaques with the names of the dead. The grass was always neatly trimmed, and it made the graveyard look vast, endless. It was a big cemetery and no one bothered him, an inconspicuous dot in the corner. He talked to his mother, to the ground, pulling at grass and ending up tearing out entire patches, effectively ruining the well-kept look of the cemetery. Looking around from time to time, he made sure no one was close by, seeing a young teenager muttering to himself.

“… and it’s all just so unreal now, mom. I mean, two years ago or something, I was just a kid, no worries on my mind. Now Scott’s a werewolf, not that that’s so super special, I mean werewolves exist everywhere, it’s just, he was bitten against his will, and then the guy who bit him got killed by his own pack. And I thought that was kind of an overkill, _no_ pun intended, but they didn’t. He’d woken up from this comatose state and started killing people, and for some reason which we are still not clear on, he bit Scott. A complete lunatic, if you ask me. Oh, mom, there are too many puns with this lycanthropy thing, it’s not even funny.”

He snorted to himself, pulled at the grass some more. “Except that it totally is. Scott thinks so, too. The Hales, not so much. I only met them once, and it was … not successful. Laura’s nice and all, but those other two, seriously. They should be friggin’ vampires, not werewolves. They barely smiled. In fact, they barely talked. So naturally, I filled up silences like I do, babbling on about stupid shit. Needless to say, I received only glares from Derek and Cora, their names by the way. Laura laughed, so she’s my favourite. Cora is in her last year of high school, like us. Don’t have too many classes with her. Anyways, I wasn’t too impressed. The werewolf gene is a disappointment. Scott not included. Laura either. Okay, maybe I’m not being fair.”

Sighing, he adjusted himself, now in a lotus position. “If you could see me, you would probably ask, Stiles, what on earth are you doing, and I would say, mommy dearest, I am doing yoga. Although, I don’t know what tone you would take, because … because I don’t remember your different tones.” He coughed, like one would do in a conversation, then realized he was not in a conversation. “Whatever. So, yoga. It’s to help me concentrate. I don’t think it’s working, but Charlie won’t stop nagging about it, so there. The whole empath thing is going all right. Mind control, not so much. I got Charlie to move an entire two steps towards the bar last month, so we celebrated and later in the evening Evan stole three beers and slipped me one. Rosie distracted her mom while Evan got the beers, it was all very Mission: Impossible. Stealth and secrecy, the whole shebang. Two days ago, she finally actually _reached_ the bar before stopping again completely. Now I only have to get her to take a glass, fill it, drink it. It’s going to be a long ride.”

He hummed silently to some song that was stuck in his head. “By the way, I tried something a couple of weeks ago. I tested the whole gold thing, which by the way is still really friggin’ weird. I guess I never wore any gold birth bracelet or anything. I assume you didn’t wear any gold jewellery. But I was just really curious, you know. Like, I wanted to see what would happen to my face. I made sure I was home alone, don’t worry. The, uh, result was _gnarly_. I pricked my finger with a needle –a la Sleeping Beauty- and pressed it against some gold.Man, mom, I looked horrifying, I completely freaked myself out. I looked so … sharp and … inhuman. Pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone with actual razor sharp cheekbones, and despite what the media say, it’s not a good look.” He touched his face. “Ten long minutes, that’s how much time it took to get my own face back. Dad came home later, and I’d smashed the mirror in my room. I remember … being, just, very angry. Like, furious. I don’t even know at what, but I just was. Anyways, I was grounded for three weeks, dad was not amused. You probably wouldn’t be, either.”

It was a little after dawn, daylight slowly growing more intense, and the wind was blowing. He ignored the chilly breeze. “Dad is not doing too well with the whole thing. The werewolf thing, I mean. He presses me every time I come back from training at Charlie’s, asking if there’s any progress on my _mind controlling expertise,_ and it’s so damn annoying. I don’t snap at him, ‘cause I understand he’s worried and yadie yadie yadda, but still. Annoying. I love him though. You didn’t leave me with a horrible father. You loved him too, right?” No answer, of course. He didn’t expect one.

“He misses you. … Sometimes, these empathy powers suck. Today, especially. I guess you know, but the stronger someone’s feeling something, the more difficult it is to block out. And today, man, today, sucks. It was bad enough when I didn’t have these, _extra_ _feelings,_ but now? Now, it’s absolutely horrible. He’s so fucking sad. And, mom, I don’t even remember you much, but I miss you, too. It’s so shit. I fled the house this morning. Can you believe I actually woke up from dad’s sorrow? It was so disorientating. For a moment I’d forgotten what day it was. I was like, _what the hell is happening to me?_ It took a while to realize it wasn’t me, but dad. I just had to get out of there. So here I am, seven thirty a.m…. I wonder if you’d have liked Beacon Hills. It’s kinda big, but not too crowded. Right now, it’s freezing cold, my ass is frozen. It’s still half dark. I might have climbed over the gate to get in at this hour. Might have.” 

He had not bought any flowers seeing as all the shops were closed this early in the morning. There was school, but he never went on this day. He decided he would get some flowers afterwards. He would place them where he was now sitting, against the willow at the far end of the cemetery.

“I wish you were here. I want to know you. Dad barely talks about you. I remember, when I was younger, I didn’t understand why he never talked about you. I kept asking, nagging … but he didn’t … he just evaded. Apparently, I used to throw tantrums. Separation anxiety. I blocked that out, I think, ‘cause I don’t remember that. He still doesn’t talk about you. I’ve never really known death, I was too young with you … but, god, it’s really bad, isn’t it? I wish you could be here, to help him get out of it. I mean, he’s mostly okay. Just not today. Never today. Me either. It’s so crazy, I feel like I’m missing something I never really had. Like I’m missing an absence. Maybe that makes sense. I don’t know…. I’m turning eighteen soon. Little Essie will be a man.” He pulled a face. “Ugh, I don’t want to be a grown up. I’ll have to pay bills, and vote, make appointments and blah, blah, blah, be responsible, blah, blah, blah, think about the future, no thanks.”

Stiles had sat still for too long, the position now painful. He untangled his legs, numb joints creaking, and lay down on his back. “I hope I don’t disappoint you. But you couldn’t even tell me if you were disappointed, so I innocently choose to believe you aren’t.” He should’ve brought a jacket. The ground was cold.

The flowers he brought her were purple irises.


	11. The Birthday

Peanuts was dark and cosy as usual. Stiles-approved music was playing at a soft volume. Rose jumped him as soon as he was inside, shrieking and laughing as she hugged –squeezed- the life out of him. If it weren’t for the fact that he had been exercising some more, and had passed the worst of puberty, he probably wouldn’t have been able to catch her without toppling over. Evan said as such and Stiles shot him a dirty look.

“Haaaaaapy birthday!” Rose sang in his ear, a little too loudly.

“Thanks, Rosie. Ooh, sweet,” he said as she handed him a package. It was a shirt of The Who. Though Evan had been standing next to him the whole time, he felt it necessary to lunge at him and give him a tight hug as well. “Happy eighteenth, man.” He smiled his effortless smile, which Stiles couldn’t help but return. The three were standing in a triangle.

“God, you look like such a hippie,” Stiles told Evan. It was true. He had changed a lot during the last year. The dude had grown even taller, Stiles had to crane his neck a bit to look at him. No wonder he was on the basketball team. His hair now reached far below his shoulders and he’d opted for dreadlocks during the summer, the big bundle now tied back with a hairband. Together with his somewhat more alternative clothing style and the three piercings (eyebrow, ear, ear) he had acquired over the last year, the look was complete. Stiles teased him for it, and Evan laughed along. He didn’t mind, and Stiles didn’t blame him: the guy looked good.

Stiles did not have many friends, he was well aware of this fact. But the few friends he did have, he was happy to note, were present. Near the jukebox, his friend Heather, a lively girl who could make a mean mojito, was talking to her best friend Jenna. Charlie was talking to two guys that were also on the lacrosse team. Joseph, who always looked like he was mildly confused by something, was listening to his friend tell the story of that time Stiles had given a teammate a bloody nose by a ridiculously badly aimed ball. Charlie laughed good naturedly. He saw other familiar faces, but was looking for Scott’s, whose he didn’t find.

Evan nudged him out of his search party, handing him a flat, paper wrapped square. It was the CD matching the shirt he’d got from Charlie. “Thanks, man, this is cool.” Rose looked at him, smiling broadly. Her outfit was flashy, oriental red cloth dotted with gold –fake, obviously- patterns and airy black trousers. She’d dyed her hair back to brown since last time he’d seen her. “You don’t have this one, already, do you?” Evan asked.

“Nope,” he lied. He gave in to the uncontrollable urge to wink.

Stiles was a big fan of cake. And tonight he wasn’t disappointed. Subtlety was not his middle name, and he had made sure to drop enough hints cake should never be absent from a birthday party, _ever_. His father arrived some time later, and Stiles kept and eye on him, making sure his old man didn’t eat too many slices. This endeavour wasn’t too successful, because he was busy stuffing his face himself. Five different glorious cakes with chocolate, cream, fruit, dough, sugar and jelly and man, he couldn’t stop. He would regret this later, but screw it, you only turn eighteen once. Evan was looking at him now, a slightly perturbed look on his face as Stiles loudly smacked his lips and licked his fingers clean. Always the gentleman, Evan offered him multiple napkins. Even a break-up didn’t make him sour.

The party had been going on for about an hour before Scott finally showed up, wholly apologetic and muttering and complaining about the Hales, “They’re tyrants, I swear. They wouldn’t let me go! And I did try, I promise,” and then in a lower voice, “I tried to run away, but they’re just, stronger than me.”Scott was accompanied by Cora who seemed entirely undisturbed by the accusatory edge to Scott’s voice. Her straight hair matched her straight face, and her no-bullshit demeanour matched her wardrobe, void of bright colours.

Stiles had invited Scott –obviously – and his best friend had surprised him by telling him Cora would join, “If that’s okay, you know. Is it okay?” Stiles had answered, “Yeah, sure.” Cora was _curious_ , was the word Scott had used. Another surprise, because Cora didn’t seem particularly interested in anything. But who was Stiles to say that: he didn’t know her. Up until now, he had spent barely any time with the Hales. The Sheriff hadn’t seemed too pleased when Stiles casually mentioned that Cora would be coming, too. “No objections,” Stiles had mock threatened, “It’s my birthday, I get to choose.”

Stiles looked at the two newcomers and announced, “Your lucky day, buddy, there’s still some cake left.” The two wolves wished him a happy birthday, one brightly and bubbly, the other shortly but not unkindly. Scott left his side to get some strawberry cake, Cora followed.

“Mmh,” said Evan.

“Mmh mmh,” replied his sister.

“What? What? _Mmmh_ what?”

The two siblings were staring at the two wolves, Evan calmly, while Rose looked uncomfortable. Stiles thought it was probably the electric buzz she was currently feeling. Been there, done that. Out of nowhere Charlie and his dad appeared next to him. The rest of the people in Peanuts seemed oblivious as to what was happening, but Stiles, not so much.

And what annoyed him was that he couldn’t go right ahead and say _I don’t need your protection. You knew they were coming, let it go!_ Scott and Cora, backs still turned while standing at the other end of the room near the tables where the food was, would hear it. No, instead, he waved his hands in the parent’s general direction while communicating with his eyebrows as if to say, _Shoo, shoo._

As Cora and Scott returned Stiles noticed his father tensing slightly, internally, and he put his hand on his father’s arm. Stiles smiled reassuringly, and pushed his dad towards the bar, “Have you seen those pictures on the mantle? That lady in the second one with the fishing rod totally looks like Nadine, it’s crazy. Why don’t you show him, Charlie?” She looked at him for a second, fully aware of his meaning, “Sure thing, Essie.”

The air was tense, and the easy conversation supplied by Rose and Scott –the two most talkative of the group apart from himself – didn’t fool him. Evan and Cora just darted their eyes from one person talking to the other. She rarely talked and Evan seemed a little lost in thought, unsurprisingly. Normally Stiles would be full on babbling himself in the hopes of relieving the tension, but he was too distracted. He kept looking back at Charlie and his dad near the bar. She was pointing at the pictures and then offered him a drink. It wasn’t a whisky, Stiles was relieved to notice. But all his noticing and looking was in turn noticed by Cora and then she kept looking back at the couple, so Stiles tried to stop.

The group was talking about their own birthday parties, all the embarrassment and one stupid accident involving a pool and a very drenched, pissed off Melissa McCall. Stiles laughed at the memory.

On the surface, everything looked fine. But in reality, Stiles was about to choke on the tension in the air. When Stiles looked over, he saw dim lines appearing and disappearing on his father’s neck, lines of worry. Claiming to be thirsty, he went over to the bar. He stood next to his father, and tried to calm down himself and thus, his father. A minute long they stood there silently while Charlie talked about something unimportant and poured a celebratory beer for Stiles (his father didn’t protest). She was well aware of what was happening, and kept talking to make the odd situation a little less odd to a bystander.

The lines disappeared. He said, “Thanks”, when Charlie handed him the beer. He held up the glass, waiting for his father to pick up his own glass and clink it. “Happy birthday, son.” Stiles was struck for a moment at how old his father looked. The dark lighting didn’t help.

The rest of the evening (for the parents) and the night (the teenagers) passed, uneventful. Yet, Stiles couldn’t ignore the feeling of strain that seemed to float around them. He hoped that in the future, things would get better. Looking around at all of them, he realized it would be a blow to the heart to lose anyone of them. But he knew that if life was anything, it was unfair. Why are birthday parties so depressing, he thought?

The whole situation put a damper on the party. His eyes keep darting between the two groups. _No fun_.


	12. The Ballet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dance sometimes resembled a fight. They dodged each other’s movement, but then moved closer again like lovers reminding each other of a touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favorite chapters to write!

“The Ballet? You’re taking me to the ballet?!”

“He gets it,” she whooped.

“So that’s why you told me to dress nice.” She herself was wearing a dress that might as well have been plucked out of a sixties photo-shoot, A-line and a pattern of black and white cubes. “Why ballet? I didn’t know you were into that. But, uhm, seriously, though, what am I doing here? I’m not really a classical music kinda dude, or a tutu kinda dude. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I mean, there _isn’t_ anything wrong with it at all. Those dancers, can really, you know,” he gestured with his hands, “dance. Like, damn, they really have muscl-”,

“Let me stop you before you actually start fainting from not taking a breath. The reason is simple. I brought you here, because I wanted to show you something. Something really cool. You’re gonna love it, trust me.” She winked at him, grabbed his hand and dragged him inside the building.

Stiles was sceptical. A thought struck him.

“Wait, how on earth did you pay for this? This must cost money, like not a small amount of money.”

“I have ways,” she replied mysteriously.

“A family fortune?”

“More like, a really _convincing_ way of asking for things, you know?”

He did know. He lifted an eyebrow.

“Isn’t that slightly morally ambiguous?” he asked. Inside, a mass of people was talking and shuffling along.

“Slightly? Wholly. But, hey, who’s gonna rat me out? You? They won’t miss a ticket or two in a room that sits over three hundred people. We are in the fancy part of town, after all. Enough room, _even_ for the morally ambiguous.” She tugged at his hand again, and they headed for one of the black doors, adorned with gold-tinted frames. They were indeed in the fancy part of town.

Rose had gotten tickets for the first ring. They went up the stairs and followed the dark corridor with extremely ugly yellow lighting. The air was slightly chilly and dry, as if the air conditioning had been on the entire day. When they arrived the top of the stairs, a young man with a fake smile plastered on his face asked for their tickets and then pointed to his left, “Number 54 and 55, have a good evening.” The seats were on the first row, nearest to the balcony over which you could peer and see the main seating area.

The theatre room was luxurious. The colour palette consisted of red, the seats and the curtain on stage, and a deep brown of the floors and the walls. Despite the cold, the dimmed golden-yellow lights created an illusion of warmth and intimacy. It was a bold setting. Stiles felt a strange need to behave like an adult to blend in with the scene. He pushed the need away. 

They sat down. This was elegant and classy, not really what he was used to. He was fidgeting, and Rose rolled her eyes, leaned over the balcony and looked at the scene that presented itself, drumming fingers in symmetry on the wooden material.

“How long does this shindig last? I’m already hungry.” His stomach growled slightly.

“Quit complaining! It’s not attractive.” The stage and the mass of people was distracting her. Her eyes skimmed over the enormous room.

He grumbled, “Whatever, I’m still hungry. And it’s not like we can just buy some M&Ms here, or anything.”

“Patience, Essie,” she said cheerfully.

A dramatic sigh escaped his mouth, “The one thing I don’t have.”

“Well, suck it up. Sit, stay, look, enjoy. And I think about an hour.” A lopsided grin appeared on her face. She continued to take in the surroundings, excited like a kid in a candy store.

After a minute or five, during which she took in the entire room with her eyes, while he was fidgeting, she turned around suddenly with an “Oh!” and took her purse off her shoulder. She rummaged through what Stiles presumed was a massive pile of clutter, and took out a small object. A huge smile spread across her face as she handed it to him.

He huffed a small laugh when he saw it was a pair of opera binoculars. They were metal and looked somewhat old. In fact, they smelled like old metal.

“You can’t do things halfway, Stiles. Plus, those are just damn cool.”

“Yes, they are, ” he agreed. “Where did you get this? This looks a bajillion years old, man.”

“A couple years ago, at this antique fair. Kind of expensive, but it’s still in usable condition. I had it cleaned and stuff. Not good as new, but good enough for me!”

Meanwhile, Stiles had already put the thing in its destined place and was now scanning the room himself. “Whoa, you can just spy on people. That lady is wearing the ugliest green glasses. Whoa, that old guy has the bushiest, whitest eyebrows, man, how can he see? Oh, look, there’s someone asleep already. Hah. There’s a tiny kid picking his nose, and, hey! His father yanks his hand away. _Fiend_. He is sitting next to a woman with ridiculous hair, and she’s busy one her phone. Lady, don’t you know you’re supposed to turn that off for shows? Hey, shit, actually…” He gave the device to Rose and fished his phone out of his pocket to switch it off. His stomach growled.

All the voices in the room melted into one another and formed a buzzing background. Stiles let out a deep breath and looked down at the main seating area. There were a million of tiny movements of people moving to their assigned seat or people using their hands while they were talking to the person next to them. From up above, if Stiles squinted his eyes a little, they looked like ants.

“Ever been to the ballet before?” he asked.

She didn’t take the binoculars away as she answered that she had been twice before. She wasn’t particularly fond of classic ballet, but enjoyed a more modern approach.

“Mmh… and you wanted to show me something really cool,” he repeated.

“Yes, Essie, something really cool,” she said mimicking his dubious tone, but with a small smile appearing on her face. 

After a while, the lights started to dim and the room slowly fell silent. There was a lot of waiting around, during which Stiles’ stomach growled loudly. He pressed his hand against his abdomen, willing it to stop. It didn’t. He ignored the looks people cast his way.

Now only the lights on stage were on. Soft and slow music started playing. For some time, nothing happened. Then two people, a man and a woman, came on the stage. First, they circled each other, as if they were two creatures curious about each other’s existence. They got closer and backed away again. The rhythm of the music followed their movements. It had taken on an almost tribal like quality. Stiles thought of The Jungle Book, though the music was nothing alike. He wondered if they were going to turn their backs to each other and rub against each other like Baloo did with the tree. They didn’t.

Stiles was just watching. As the two dancers started picking up a faster pace and moved more closely to each other, he noticed a change. Black lines started tracing the body of the woman. Her legs, arms and back were bare. He was familiar with the tattoos by now. The lines were sharpening and fading. The marks seemed to change shape, though it was hard to tell which forms they took from this distance

Not only did he see a change, but he felt one too. The cool room started to warm up, or maybe it was just him, he didn’t know. But it wasn’t an unpleasant temperature. It wasn’t heat, it was warmth, enveloping him. He couldn’t stop watching her as she moved. The dance had turned more dynamic. The man and the woman seemed to chase each other, not yet touching, but trying to. Their movements were fluid, and they seemed to be in perfect harmony. The man was clearly not an empath. Stiles’ gaze zeroed in on the woman and stayed there.

He forgot about his hunger, too distracted by what he saw. It was beautiful to see, but even better to feel. It seemed as if everything was amplified. The music, the movements. He couldn’t deny his amazement and somewhere along the performance his mouth had opened and had not yet closed.

The dancers touched. The music had turned deep and intense. He couldn’t stop watching. The marks that were dancing on his own skin stayed unnoticed. It was almost as if he could feel warmth radiating off of her, which was impossible as he was sitting much too far away.

Suddenly, he was yanked out of his daydream as Rose nudged him, handing him the binoculars. He hadn’t even noticed she’d hogged them. He accepted them wordlessly and returned his eyes to the stage. Before, he’d only seen vague shapes turning into others on her skin, but now he could see it more clearly. The shapes were intricate, like spider webs or blueprints.

He continued watching while they continued dancing. The dance sometimes resembled a fight. They dodged each other’s movement, but then moved closer again like lovers reminding each other of a touch. It went from fast and out of control to slow and fluid, almost like a slow dance. After a whole sequence of carefully avoiding any physical contact as they danced around each other, two hands touched. The two hands stayed together one way of the other, whether it was a palm, a finger, or an entire hand. They started touching more of each other’s body. An arm and a leg, a torso and a back, a second hand and a face. Soon, the space between the man and the woman was closed, and it stayed closed. The music stopped as the two bodies were completely entangled. The black lines continued swirling on her body.

Thundering applause broke the silence. It was as someone had shouted directly into Stiles’ face. The metaphorical dam broke. Time had apparently lost all meaning, because he could swear that that was not an hour. It had felt like minutes. His eyes felt dry, as if he hadn’t blinked in a while. His cheeks were burning. Next to him, Rose seemed to be waking up out of a similar trance. They were the only two not standing and clapping. Rose turned to him, smiling widely. He had no idea what kind of expression was on his own face, but it seemed to amuse her.

“Wow,” he said.

“Wow is right. Cool, huh?” The background noise was loud and she had to shout a bit.

“Very cool, extremely cool. An optimal level of coolness.”

She stood up, “An extra birthday present, Essie. I knew you’d like it.” She winked. He tried to wink back, but it seemed his motoric functions where a bit shaken. He stood and clapped instead.

The lights had started to go on again, and now he saw black lines on his hands, moving like an octopus’ tentacles. He glanced over at Rose, whose arms were bare, and the same thing was happening on her skin.

The applause died out and people started shuffling out of the room. Rose and Stiles sat back down. Soon most people had left.

“I’ve never been high, but that kind of felt like getting high. Do you feel high?”

She giggled. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he murmured before laughing himself.

Rose let out a big sigh. “That, my friend, was an empath in its element. My mother saw the poster of the ballet in town last Wednesday and told me the woman was an empath she knew once, and I was really curious. I snuck in here a couple of days ago while they were rehearsing. It was as amazing as now. So much passion.”

Stiles nodded. “Dude, wow. Seriously. That was something. I’m a little speechless right now.”

She snorted, “You?”

“Funny.”

Rose smiled and stretched, cracking a few joints in the process.

“Man, it’s kind of crazy how we can just be absorbed in her …, I don’t really know what to call it, her passion?” Stiles gestured to the stage.

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not always that intense. But obviously dancing is her thing. We probably all have our thing. The thing that really gets us going.”

“Could we ignore it? Like we learn in training?” Not that Stiles had minded this clouded, fuzzy experience.

“Sure. Practice.” Was the answer ever different?

Stiles felt a little strung out. His hungry stomach made itself known by a very loud gurgle.

Rose laughed, “Okay, Essie, _now_ we can go find some food.”

“Thanks,” they got up, “and thanks. For bringing me, I mean.”

“No problem. Let’s go appease our stomachs.” She cast a last glance at the stage, deserted by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Stiles and Derek meet, properly.


	13. The Dinner

The first time Stiles met all three of the Hales together, the time he’d told his mother about, was short. He had in fact only meant to pop in and out of their apartment –a place surprisingly roomy and wealthy looking for three young adults-, but Scott was in their shower, getting cleaned up. Cleaned up, Stiles assumed, referred back to their own training: Scott was a Beta in their pack, and because they were such a small pack, they needed to stay in shape all the more. This meant lots of training and a presumably sweaty and smelly Scott. The other three werewolves didn’t look quite so fresh themselves, and they certainly didn’t smell it. Stiles fought the urge to comment on it, and failed. (“Whoo-ey” and then a step back, away from one annoyed glare, one passive one and one smiling face; Derek, Cora and Laura).

He’d waited in their living room: a big space with large windows and light blue walls, sparse furniture and few personal items. They had only just moved in, and hadn’t brought a lot with them from New York, Laura’d informed him. They were planning on staying, then? Stiles had sounded surprised but if he thought about it, the fact that they were staying wasn’t that strange. Scott was part of their pack, now. The Alpha, for he could feel she was the strongest without having to ask – _buzz buzz_ on his skin- said yes, they were staying. New York hadn’t been a home. She had offered nothing more, and Stiles had asked nothing else. Instead, he had stood around waiting awkwardly for his friend, listening to the water running. 

On the upside, his best friend didn’t have to move all the way to New York. On the downside, more werewolves. He had felt relief and worry at the same time. And that’s all he felt. Actually, the moment he had approached the building, he had blocked all non-Stiles feelings. The real shock had come when he had stepped over the threshold. All of his senses sharpened. Colours were brighter, sounds clearer, and he had been momentarily thrown off. That time in the hospital with Scott was one thing, but this was much more intense. He’d stood there, two steps taken inside, quiet and blinking. They had looked at him oddly, but then Laura had stepped forward and shaken his hand, eliciting an actual tiny electric shock. “Whoops.” This was before the “Whoo-ey” incident.

Ten minutes later –Damn it, Scotty-, his best friend had emerged from the bathroom and Stiles had almost forcefully dragged him out the apartment. The Alpha had been smiling at his clumsiness, probably finding it charming. The two others, Stiles had noted, seemed less amused. Derek’s face seemed to say, “Are you kidding me?” Stiles had ignored it.

The second time he met them, however, he would be prepared. A dinner, Scott announced anxiously. It’s what caught Stiles’ attention: Scott, sitting at the next desk during History, sounded _anxious_. Their teacher, a tiny woman from Greek descent with a shrill voice named Mrs. Iannis was droning on about –actually, Stiles had no clue what she was talking about. He wasn’t paying attention, a habit that got him into trouble more than once. Mrs. Iannis had the tendency to pace furiously from one side of the room to the other while passionately screeching about this month’s scheduled time period. “Yes, dad, the woman actually screeches, okay? Her vocal chords will be damaged if she goes on like this, I swear _._ ” Stiles wasn’t fond of her and she was irritatingly difficult to block out, her jittery attitude jumping all over the place.

Their conversation was interrupted as she smacked the table loudly with her hand, emphasizing something important in her monologue. Sitting at the back of the class, Stiles could see the entire class spaz out of their daydreams. Stiles turned his head back to his friend.

Up until now, Scott had dealt fairly well with the werewolf situation. From what Stiles had gathered, the others were welcoming (Laura, mostly) and made sure he would not be alone in this (again, mostly Laura). But now, he sounded anxious. It didn’t take much to guess why: Stiles full well realized he hadn’t been too involved –as per his father’s request. It was a somewhat awkward, gigantic elephant in the room. Stiles didn’t talk about it because he hadn’t come up with a realistic excuse to not hang out with the Hales. Looking at the facts, he concluded Scott was nervous about the dinner because he didn’t know if Stiles would say yes.

“Why are you nervous asking me?” It wasn’t what he’d planned on saying, but that was what came out.

“I’m _not_!” He sounded defensive, and was obviously lying.

_Might as well address the gigantic elephant._ “Scott, buddy, leave the lying to this one,” he said while pointing at himself, “really. Why’re you nervous?”

They were silent for a minute while the girl in front of them asked a question, veering the teacher’s attention to their side of the classroom. Mrs. Iannis barked a short answer, “Because otherwise they couldn’t cross the border, of course.” Her tone seemed to imply, _you stupid girl._ She resumed pacing, ignoring the hurt face of the student .

“I’m not nervous,” Scott repeated, failing at nonchalance. “But you haven’t answered, you wanna come? I swear, they’re really not that bad.” Stiles shot him a look, remembering Scott’s mini rant at his birthday party. “No, really. Don’t worry about Derek, he’s just always grumpy,” he continued, addressing the fact that Stiles had, up until now, one opinion of the guy: he looked like he murdered bunnies in his sleep. “And Cora is so unfazed, she’s mostly just sleepy,” Stiles looked over to where Cora was sitting –no, slouching- in the only patch of sun filtering through the classroom, and had to admit the description matched the appearance. “And Laura, she’s open, and just generally happy.”

Stiles snorted, “And which one are you, Dopey?” Scott caught on and smiled his indeed dopey smile. “But, yeah, I’ll come. I guess a dinner is a good way to get to know them,” he said, as Mrs. Iannis stopped speaking to drink some water. It didn’t surprise him; her throat had to be burning. There were still twenty minutes of class left.

“Totally,” Scott agreed.

Stiles made a face. “Unless we all wolf down our food and not talk at all, asocial as can be.” Their teacher continued screeching. It took less than a second for his best friend to say, “Nice. What is that, number twenty three?”

“And counting,” Stiles grinned. Yes, there was a count of the amount of wolf puns he’d thrown out there.

Stiles felt anticipation. He wanted to meet them, properly. He picked up his pen and tried to actually concentrate on what was being said in class. Immediately distracted by one of the many posters in class –Immigration & America-, the studious attempt was soon forgotten. His thoughts wandered to his father. He figured he could bend the truth a bit and tell his him that Scott had said they would take offense if he didn’t accept the invitation. A common courtesy, that’s what he would lead with. It was a common courtesy to accept someone’s invitation, right?

His dad was not convinced by Stiles’ sudden interest in social etiquette. But after a lot of reasoning and begging, and ultimately putting his foot down, the answer was a yes, followed by having to make another promise, _another fucking promise,_ he thought to himself, to be more careful than ever. It was a rational and normal vow to make, but it annoyed him nonetheless. The atmosphere in the kitchen was strained the rest of the evening, both men avoiding each other’s eyes as they talked politely about absolutely nothing. Stiles wanted to scream. The lines twisting furiously on his armed betrayed his carefully controlled demeanour. It did not escape his father’s notice.

 

+

 

The dinner was to take place on a Friday evening. Before, Stiles spent some time at Peanuts practising his mind control skills. They didn’t have that long to practice: the bar would soon open up. Charlie was happy to announce he was getting better.  Stiles was relieved, maybe this would get his father to loosen up about the situation a little bit. A couple of weeks before, Rose had offered to be _subjugated_ to the experimentation, as well had Evan, who had been staring at his mother and his former boyfriend with something akin to fascination. A strict “No,” with eyes that seemed to burn holes rendered the Tenner siblings quiet.

At first, Charlie had admitted she felt strange practicing if her children were in the room, but in the end she seemed to relax a bit more. It made for a strange tableau: Stiles was sitting on the floor in some yoga position –he preferred the lotus, but occasionally would mix it up at Charlie’s command. She herself was switching locations continuously: as soon as Stiles had managed to make her walk somewhere, she changed places, stopping any possible routine from forming. Kind of like math: doing the same exercise over and over is of no use. Rose was usually sitting in a booth with Evan. The first time they had been present during these mind control classes, they had anxiously waited, expecting immediate result. Fireworks, _boom, pow_. No such luck. What they got was an increasingly ticked off Stiles who couldn’t stand their staring, and an hour of nothing happening. So now they usually busied themselves with other things, reading or doing some work. Once Stiles got better, Charlie encouraged her son and daughter to make noise and move around. Stiles needed to be able to deal with distractions. “God _damn_ it, Rosie, stop dancing around! It’s distracting.” She’d answered gaily, “That’s the po-oint!”

This Friday was more successful: Stiles had managed to get Charlie to sing and ask her son to dance after she’d put in a coin in the jukebox (You’re the One That I Want). The entire five minutes it took –Charlie sometimes moved uncertainly, pausing with a slight frown on her face- Stiles had gotten redder and redder in the face from the sheer power it took. A small tremor shook his hands and he felt lightheaded, but he was shouting and jumping into the air, “Yes! Yes! Oh, my god, oh, GOD, whooooo!” As soon as he did this, though, he lost the hold on Charlie, and she was standing in the middle of the room, swaying slightly in aftermath. Evan had stopped dancing, too.

“Good job, Essie, I’m proud,” her eyes looked sad as she said it but Stiles didn’t notice it.

He walked over to her and presented a high five, which she dutifully ignored: _Shit, right_ , Stiles remembered, _mind control is nothing to celebrate_. Still, he couldn’t help it, he smiled. The sensation during the mind control was difficult to dissect: it was eerie to see Charlie do exactly as he wanted her to. Strange, even wrong. But that feeling was minor right now, he was too happy at the fact that _for once, it worked!_

Suddenly, his light-headedness grew. “Uuhhnn, I need some water.” Evan took his arm and guided him to a chair while Rose got him a glass. Charlie looked at him, concerned. “You are getting better, much better, but maybe we should slow down.”

The bloody nose he just got, _drip drip drip_ on his shirt, was concrete proof that, yes, maybe they should slow down. Someone held a paper napkin in front of him. “I guess.” The dark green clock behind the counter indicated he still had a few hours before he had to go the Hales. “Go lie down,” Charlie commanded. Stiles only managed a mere _mmh._

Two hours later he was shaken awake gently by Rose. Stiles realized he was in Evan’s bed.

“Oh, crap, what time is it?”

Rose lifted the duvet and sat down beside him. “A little before seven. You need to leave?”

“Yeah, gotta be there by seven thirty.” He yawned widely, resembling a hippopotamus, when Evan appeared in the doorway. Stiles could still feel _feelings_ Evan had for him. Rose stood back up, the flash of colours of her outfit passing before his eyes. “Come on, little brother, let’s give Es a few minutes to return to the land of the living.” Stiles did need a few minutes, his mind was a scrambled mess.

After a couple of minutes sitting upright, feeling the blood rush in his ears, he stood up slowly. _Yep, everything works_. He walked back downstairs and drank another glass of water. Rose and Evan had disappeared off to somewhere, but Charlie was standing behind the bar, clearing away some of yesterday’s mess: unwashed glasses, stains on the steel sink.

“Next time, we go slower. Don’t want you to get another nosebleed. Your father is going to be worried,” he heard her say as she was crouching on the floor looking for a bottle cap that had fallen off the counter.

“ _Or,_ we could just not tell him?” he said hopefully. A futile attempt, really.

Charlie laughed, “No way, kid. Not happening.”

“Yeah, thought as much,” he sighed. With a glance at the clock, he said, “I need to go.”

Now Charlie sighed. She got back up, with the retrieved cap in between her thumb and index finger. “Be careful, huh?”

“Yep, yep, always!”

“Stiles, I’m serious.”

“So am I!” Why it didn’t sound genuine even to his own ears, he didn’t know. “Sorry, yeah, I will be. Promise.”

 

+

 

He was greeted by the face of Derek Hale. It was an attractive face, but it too bad he wore the same slightly annoyed expression on his face as the first time Stiles had met him. Thankfully, this time he wasn’t so sweaty and gross smelling, Stiles noticed.

Like last time, Stiles blocked out all feelings. He didn’t need to _feel_ irritation wafting off Derek to know the guy was irritated. Why, though, he couldn’t say.

“Hel-loo,” Stiles started, waiting for a change in expression on Derek’s face. It didn’t come.

“Hey,” was the only response before Derek stepped sideways to let him in.

“Scott here yet?” The answer wasn’t needed, because his best friend came out of nowhere, forcefully bumping into him, “Boo.” Just because Stiles could feel the presence of the wolves, it didn’t mean he couldn’t be surprised by one. A valuable lesson, one often told to him by his father. Nothing like first hand experience, though.

His heart rate doubled in a second. “Sheesh, Scotty, save a man a heart attack, would ya?” he grinned.

Scott gave him a big smile, “It’s cool, I can sneak up on people now.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, “real neat-o.” Thumbs up.

“Were you working before?” Scott asked. Laura came out of what Stiles presumed to be the kitchen, and Derek disappeared through the same door. The smell of meat filled his nostrils.

“Oh, yeah, Peanuts. Hi, Laura,” he said brightly.

She wiped her hands on her jeans and walked over to them, “Hey, Stiles, how’s it going?”

“Good, good,” he answered though he still felt somewhat lightheaded. “Smells good here. What’s on the menu?”

“Right, I completely forgot to ask, are you a vegetarian?” She looked worried for a second and Stiles entertained the idea to say yes, just to see what reaction would be. So he did.

“Really, oh, shit!”

Stiles laughed and Scott joined in, “No, man, I’m totally messing. No vegetarian, regular carnivore.”

“Oh, okay, good,” she smiled. Gesturing with her hands to the living room area, they sat down on the two couches, dark blue and extremely comfortable. “Where’s Cora?” he asked.

“Upstairs,” Scott answered, pointing to the ceiling.

“Oh, yeah, you can hear all that. Did you hear me come up?”

“Yes,” Laura answered. She was unrolling the sleeves of her red blouse. It matched her red lipstick and, Stiles bet, her Alpha glare. “You’re not exactly stealthy,” she laughed. Right, he’d bumped hard against stupid handrails after tripping and had let out a loud _fuck_. He prodded at the skin on his hip, a hello to the bruise he would probably be sporting.

“No secrets, huh?”

“Nope,” she answered brightly. Stiles looked over at Scott, who looked glum. “Still haven’t accepted it, buddy?”

Scott looked at Laura as if he’d been caught, but she had no malice in her eyes as she reassured him, “It takes time, that’s all.”

Stiles bet he was probably more used to having less privacy than his best friend, being an empath and all. The words were on the tip of his tongue, ready to fall out, but he closed his half open mouth instead. 

A small current of electricity revived, humming as Cora came down from the stairs dressed as casually as ever: jeans, brown t-shirt and hair tied back in a pony tail. No jewellery, no make-up, a soft face with contrastingly dark eyes scanning over the room. “Hey,” she offered, quietly. He said hello back. She plopped down next to her sister. Scott and Stiles sat in the other couch opposite them, a crooked coffee table dividing them.

“So …” Stiles began, “how was the, uh, move from the Big Apple?” He didn’t expect Cora to start babbling, and was not surprised when Laura took the reigns of the conversation. Her younger sister sat silently, flipping through a magazine that had lain on the table: a National Geographic about travelling to the Philippines. 

“It wasn’t so bad,” Laura scratched her head. “A bit sudden, but all right. I didn’t really like New York. Too big.”

“Yeah? I’ve never been there, really want to, though. For some reason I really want to go to China Town and crack open some corny fortune cookies. I mean, we have a China Town here, but I want to go to the one in New York.” Babble, babble, babble.

Laura laughed, “They really are corny. I can give you some tips if you ever decide to go. Well, if or when?”

“Oh, when. I’m going one day, when I have enough money.”

Scott shifted next to him, “You already started setting money aside for that? With Peanuts?”

“What’s Peanuts?” Laura asked. Cora answered, “It’s a bar. Stiles works there.”

Stiles kind of wished they wouldn’t talk about Peanuts. On the one hand, he wanted to keep the Tenners out of this. On the other hand, it wasn’t a secret he was supposedly working there and earning some money .

“You work in a bar? You don’t really look twenty one, no offense, honey.” The pet name came out of the blue, but she seemed like the type of person who would use them, unlike her two siblings.

“Oh, yeah, no, my dad and I know the woman who owns it. It’s not exactly official or anything. Besides, I’m not allowed to serve drinks, I just clean toilets.” It wasn’t technically a lie, he had in the past, _sometimes, okay, maybe like twice_ , cleaned the restrooms. All in the name of upholding the charade when Scott was around.

The semi lie wasn’t detected, or at least he hoped so. Laura seemed convinced. Scott returned back to his earlier question, “But you’ve saved up some?”

Stiles settled for a vague _mweeh,_ moving his hand from one side to the other. He stopped Scott before the guy could inquire any further and turned to Laura, “Oh, hey, I threw you off before with the whole ha-ha-I’m-a-vegetarian-thing, but you didn’t answer my question. What is it you lovely Hales are cooking up?”

Laura grinned at him and pointed backwards to the kitchen. “Why don’t you go and look? I’m sure my brother would appreciate your help.”

“God, is he that terrible of a cook?” Stiles asked jokingly as he got up, curious.

Laura imitated the _mweeh_ hand gesture and Scott laughed. Cora was still looking at the glossy pages of her magazine.

Stiles now barely noticed the electric thrum alerting him to the presence of werewolves. He felt it fading slightly as he walked away from the three and then increasing again as he walked into the kitchen.

He did not try to contain the moan coming from his lips when he took a long inhale in the room. “Day-um, that smells good. What are you making?” Derek looked over at him, face almost glaring, and in that moment Stiles could really see the family resemblance with Cora. “Wow, like two peas in a pod, aren’t ya?”

Derek looked confused now. “What?”

“Oh, I mean you and your sister,” he said and then clarified, “Cora. You both have _the glare_ down, let me tell you.”

Derek just looked at him now, and it made Stiles uncomfortable, “You didn’t answer, what are you making?” He walked over to Derek and peered over, seeing green peppers.

Eyes followed his movement as he retreated again and walked around the kitchen toward the fridge. It had no magnets and looked too clean. All too new and impersonal. The entire kitchen looked spotless, a pristine mix of white and black and steel.

“Stuffed peppers. With beef.”

Stiles huffed, “Should’ve guessed we’d eat red meat. True carnivores, right?” He turned back around from where he’d been looking out the window next to the refrigerator –a lady with a ridiculously big dog walked past, illuminated by orange streets lights. A couple of moths were dancing around the lamp. 

He received a blank look. “Sure.” Wow, what a conversationalist. Derek went back to stuffing the peppers 

“Hey, how far can you hear?”

Derek sighed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Stiles sounded as if he was explaining things to a six-year-old, “what’s the range? How far are you able to hear something, like a shout, or a whisper.”

“A shout and a whisper are completely different,” Derek commented. Only his arms were moving, working on the food.

“Fine, a shout, then.”

Derek paused for a moment, “About six miles. Maybe more.”

Stiles nodded, interested. “I read that a wolf’s hearing is, like, sixteen times sharper than a human’s. But I guess maybe it’s different for werewolves.”

“Maybe.”

Stiles dismissed the short answer, “Wow. So you could play at walkie-talkies without actual walkie-talkies.” He laughed at himself.

“I guess, yeah.”

Stiles was getting antsy. “Do you need some help?”

“No.” It wasn’t a rude no, more like a statement of a fact.

“Okay, do you _want_ some help?”

Derek answered slowly, “No,” then added, “Thanks.”

Stiles didn’t leave, though. “How about setting the table? I can do that.”

“Aren’t you a guest?”

“So? Fuck social etiquette,” Stiles said. He heard Derek huff.

The peppers were stuffed and Derek put them in the oven. The guy was wearing dark blue jeans and a brown shirt. Stiles wondered if he realized he was wearing almost the same thing as Cora. Two peas in a pod. Derek turned around and leaned against the sink.

“So,” Stiles said awkwardly. They were standing on opposite ends of the room. He could hear music coming from the other room.

“So,” Derek repeated. He crossed his arms and in doing so looked defensive. Stiles did not enjoy uncomfortable silences, _at all,_ but it didn’t seem to perturb Derek. _Come on, Stiles, pick a topic, pick a topic._

“What do you do? As a job? Like, you’re a werewolf, but obviously that’s not a job. If it were, that’d be kind of unfair, no? I mean, yeah, …, no.” He trailed off, looking at Derek’s arched brow, “So, job? Or no job?” He’d almost said “to job or not to job”. _No, just, no._

“In between right now.”

“Right, solid.” _Why solid? Jesus._ “How old are you? I mean, not that I’m implying you’re old and therefore are supposed to have a job, because that’s ju-,”

“Twenty-three,” Derek cut him off and raised a brow while saying “I’m guessing you’re, what, -,” This time Stiles cut him off, “Eighteen. Recently. Had a birthday party and all, your sister even went.”

“Right, I remember. At a bar, right? Something with a nut,” Derek said. He leaned against the kitchen sink.

“Yeah, Peanuts.” Stiles stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking lanky and slightly at loss for what to do.

Outside it was starting to rain. The days were getting shorter and it was already dark. The bad weather made him want to jump, fight gloominess with energy.

“Why are you fidgeting?” Stiles looked down at where his hands were fumbling with a loose string of his shirt. Very faint grey lines were tracing his hands, proof of his nerves. Why was he so jumpy? He concentrated and thought of Charlie and yoga, and the lines disappeared gradually as he explained, “Nervous habit.” He pulled at the thread, wanting to tear it off, but instead it only got longer. The door opened and the others came in as Stiles made an annoyed sound directed at his shirt. He pulled some more but it just got worse. “Do you have scissors? Stupid shirt.”

Cora motioned to the drawer next to the sink, but before he could open it, Derek took the thread and broke it off with a claw. Stiles was completely caught off guard. “Hey, cool. Why do you even own scissors if you can just use these.” He held up his hands in the shape of claws. He did not notice the smile Laura shot at her brother as she took out plates and handed them to Cora.

They went about setting the table in the living room and then chatted some while taking a seat on the couches (Laura _was_ quite the conversationalist and Scott’s easy presence was very welcome) until the food was ready. Stiles was very curious about them and kept asking questions, mostly answered by Laura. Parallel to the conversation, Stiles’ mind was also busy with something else: slowly, and with small degrees, like a man stepping on thin ice, he allowed himself to get a sense of what they were feeling. He didn’t focus on anyone in particular, just feeling the ambience of the room. It was difficult to put words on it, but it had a tentative touch to it, as if everyone was being careful. Next to the tentative feeling –he supposed the dinner was a sort of try-out to see how Stiles would be around a pack of werewolves- he could sense comfort, boredom and arousal. And that last one kind of surprised him.

Who was that from? He tried to concentrate on it, but it was hard to sense and participate in the conversation at the same time. Maybe he was still tired from training with Charlie. It was as if there was a fog before him, not allowing him to find the person it was coming from. He stopped to think, _crap, actually, I should respect their privacy._

Just like he expected, when he had let his senses take over a little, colours became brighter again, sounds sharper and clearer. He was still toying with this, seeing as he had not been able to train this with Charlie. The changing sounds around him bothered him and he tried not to let it distract him. Sounds worked on his eardrums just like they would when he was falling asleep: they all seemed much louder than they actually were, a tinge harsh and unpleasant. But the colours, that was amazing. He watched, slightly in awe, as Laura’s red lips seemed an intense scarlet, Derek’s black hair seemed inky almost. His own hands seemed paler than before, veins forming a creepy, minty green web. He briefly stopped talking while the conversation continued, and focused completely of every colour in the room. It felt surreal, everything bright and bold and _alive_. It was as if someone had turned the contrast button on one hundred, a filter in front of his eyes. He drowned in it completely, forgetting where he was. He blinked his eyes a couple of times and found himself stared at by the rest of the group.

“What? What? Sorry, I missed that,” he spluttered.

Scott was smiling his goofy smile and turned to explain to the rest. “He does this sometimes.” They laughed, and Stiles just laughed along, releasing some of the high he had felt while dreaming away. Scott smacked him on the back, and that sent a jolt through his body, like an electric shock. “Wow,” he let out without thinking. “Yeah, wow, sorry, dreamed away there for a second. What was the question?” _God, I must look like a nut job, I can’t stop smiling from the high_. Derek was watching him. _Come on, stop smiling. Nuts nuts nuts._

“Not a question, really,” Laura said, “we were just talking about your dad. We met him when we first arrived.” That sobered him up. “Yeah, I remember. I brought him lunch.”

“Lucky father,” Derek remarked.

“He just needs to watch what he eats, and he doesn’t so I do it for him.” He heard the faint beeping of the oven.

“Hold up,” he said when Laura got up from the couch opposite him. “Could you potentially smell when dinner is done? When the meat’s ready, that kind of thing?”

She looked surprised at the question. “Technically, I guess, but it’s pretty annoying to have to pay that much attention all the time. We can turn it off, you know?”

_Hey, what do you know, so can I!_ “Right. But still, cool,” was what he said instead. “Scott, my man, you should become a cook or something. Picture this, one hundred per cent guarantee on perfectly cooked meat. Just imagine the reviews.” Scott didn’t look too enthused at the suggestion. As far as Stiles knew, the guy could cook an omelette and pasta. Laura told him she actually knew a Beta who lived in Cairo that owned a restaurant and used her wolfy senses for exactly that.

They all got up from the couches, and hovered around the table. (Wooden table, red plates and steel cutlery. A pile of napkins at the end of the table. A salt shaker, but no pepper shaker.) “Where do you want me?” Stiles asked. Cora and Derek had already sat down. Balancing the oven dish in one hand and holding a big ladle in the other, Laura entered the living room and answered, “Why don’t you sit next to Derek, and Scott next to Cora.”

Stiles was unprepared for the wave of irritation in combination with warmth coming from Derek. After that _colour trip_ from before, he’d shut his senses off, but apparently this had slipped through the cracks.

_Aha_ , he thought, _so it’s Derek_. The first thought was, _Bazinga! I’ve solved the mystery._ The second thought more along the lines of, _Huh. But he looks so stoic. Damn, his restraint is unparalleled._ Third, _huh._ Fourth, _huh_ , like a scientist noticing something interesting.

Aware of more than one set of eyes on him, he tried to smile pleasantly. Tried being the key word, here. It didn’t seem to have the desired effect, namely acting normal. Slowly, as if calculating a move, he sat down next to Derek at the table. At the head of the table Laura sat down, a mischievous grin on her face. Her brother did not look amused. Stiles was. Cora got up again and started serving food, guests first. “Thanks. It looks good, smells even better. Do you guys always cook together, or …?”

“Usually Cora cooks, actually. Tonight it was me and Derek,” Laura said.

Stiles could think of nothing more to say than, “Mmh.” He sat opposite of Scott, who was waiting eagerly for food. Stiles didn’t need enhanced hearing to recognize the low stomach grumbles coming from his best friend. Scott looked at him, sheepishly, as another gurgle escaped. Stiles laughed. One by one, everyone was served. They toasted, water and beer clonking together, to … to nothing in particular, it seemed. Stiles liked to believe it was because of him, and he was probably right.

They dug in, small talk turning into conversation. Cora actually opened up a bit, and after Stiles’ question about the magazine, she explained about her plans to travel. It was definitely nice to add some colour to the picture he had formed of her, quite black and white before. Stiles wondered if it would be difficult to be away from her pack.

Halfway during the meal, Stiles was again doing two things at once: conversing and … he had no verb for it, but went with sensing. He looked down at his plate, the juice of the meat ablaze in crimson, the pepper turning a dark muddy green creating a vivid contrast with the red. It was captivating. But he was simply staring at his plate in fascination instead of digging in and quickly stopped before anyone would notice, misinterpreting his interest for displeasure. Derek was looking at him again, irises alight as if someone shone a flashlight at his eyes. Stiles wondered if it was the werewolf himself, or just his own eyes seeing colours differently. The second, probably. Either way, the eyes conveyed nothing of the warm feeling wafting off of him. Stiles found it extremely unnerving.

Evan had been extremely easy to decipher: what he felt, he said. What he wanted –though it was little – he asked for. The guy was an open book, and not ashamed of it in any way. He had told Stiles some people would consider it a weakness. “I don’t understand that _,_ ” he’d added. His face never hid anything. Derek was another story, visibly. His face betrayed nothing. In fact, right now he did not look angry or irritated, content nor happy. He just _looked._ And honestly, it freaked Stiles out. Cora had a similar expression on her face, but her face seemed to say _I don’t care._

Stiles felt slightly bad about it, but he wanted to play a little. _Experiment_. So, he let out a moan of approval, “Well, it’s decided, I need to hire you people to make my food.” As the sound escaped his mouth, Derek, still as ever and betraying zilch, spilled hormones all over the place. Not only did Stiles notice –nay, get a front row seat to it–, but he was pretty sure the others noticed, too. Instead of on him, eyes settled on the guy next to him.

Stiles started licking the tips of his fingers clean – _fuck social etiquette_ \- though they were hardly dirty. It got worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it. After his mini bath, he wiped his fingers on a napkin and faced the group again. Derek hadn’t moved, Laura and Cora were halfway successful in hiding their grins, Scott was looking a little perturbed, and Stiles was cackling –on the inside.

Heaving a big sigh, he stretched and slightly invaded Derek’s personal space. The feeling magnified _._ Scott coughed and Stiles just smiled widely. “Seriously, good food.” Thumbs up. “Thanks for having me.” Laura snickered at that, patted her brother on the back and said, “Trust me, glad to _have you_.” No, the little word play did not escape his notice.

Derek still hadn’t done anything more than just follow what was happening and take a sip of beer. Stiles had to admit; Derek was good at hiding his feelings. Then he realized that that wasn’t really anything to be proud over. Evan had rubbed off on him, he concluded.

They sat at the table for another hour, digesting their stuffed peppers and feeling too stuffed to actually move around. Apparently even werewolves weren’t exempt from that. It was still raining outside but the sombre weather was forgotten in the warmth of the apartment. They talked of college and school –mandatory subjects, boring but always mentioned–, of Scott’s job, skipping further questions of Stiles’ job ( _thank you, god_ ), and landed in a conversation about animals and accidents. Stiles stopped his shenanigans and let himself be swept away in conversation. By the end of the evening _all_ the Hales were participating and Stiles was happy to note that beneath Derek’s stoic demeanour was someone who could express emotion. Cora, too, relaxed. What was most satisfying to see, however, was his best friend. Admittedly, Stiles had been watching the Hales all night, but now he looked over at his friend and the message was clear: the guy was happy everyone got along.

It was about one o’clock in the morning when he finally left, sober but drunk on the feeling of contentment. They really were not that bad, at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That whole thing with color intensifying is based on moments in 'A Single Man' where that happens. It's really something.


	14. Bazinga!

Though Stiles was known to be a planner –the endless amounts of lists found in every crook and cranny in his house attested to that fact: shopping lists, to-do-lists, I’m-bored-lists, the-dumbest-ideas-I’ve-ever-had-lists and countless of others– Stiles surprised his father by continuously avoiding talk of college and his future. It felt like too much pressure, and though his ID now indicated he was eighteen years old, he still felt like the guy in the out-dated picture of himself: cheeks rounder, hair shorter, the face of a kid. He still hadn’t realized he was now an adult and much less felt like one. True, the everlasting keeping of secrets and vows made him feel more like a grownup –it was serious business after all– but at the core he was still the same: a kid.

“Youthful, not a kid,” Charlie had corrected when he’d mentioned this after a training session during which he had goofed off with Rose instead of concentrating. Stiles had got worked up, tired of having to act like a fucking grownup all the time, and had yelled at her for reprimanding him, “For god’s sakes, Es, pay attention.” It wasn’t her fault, he knew, but the occasional outburst at the whole situation –lying, studying, worrying, spending time with Scott and the Hales, trying to avoid mentioning that to his father, training at Peanuts, then trying to avoid mentioning that as well– it was exhausting.

At first, he’d been honest with the Tenners about the Hales: he hung out with them along with Scott, and despite his former distrust of them, he found they were great people to hang out with. The slight frown on Charlie’s face matched her daughter’s –Evan seemed to be less worried about it. But as months flew by and the frowns stayed in place, Stiles stopped speaking about his regular meet-ups with the others. It was tiring, having to look at frowns all the time. Plus, he didn’t –he wouldn’t- accept their unyielding distrust. The Hales were good people. Derek remained forever moody, but Stiles had long ago acknowledged that was just who he was. Laura was truly kind and together with the firm way she handled her pack, Stiles had come to the conclusion she was a good Alpha. Mostly, Stiles was happy they were there for Scott. His best friend was very relieved he was in control.

So, the Tenners did not really support him in this. Stiles was most inclined to talk to Evan about it, if he felt the need. But that wasn’t simple, either. Jealous was an adjective Stiles would never associate his ex with, and neither would Evan. But Stiles wasn’t blind: Evan was still … _invested_ in him. Not that he was pushy about it, which didn’t surprise Stiles. _A perfect fucking gentleman._ The truth was, Stiles himself was invested in someone who behaved far less like a perfect fucking gentleman most of the time. There was no denying it, telling lines dancing around on his arms as he was in the presence of a certain grumpy Hale. Derek fucking Hale.

It was worse than he wanted to admit: it wasn’t only physical –reacting to the attractive body in front of him, familiarizing himself with every part of it as he watched the group train with interest. (Normally, Laura said, it would be unusual for a non-pack member –for he was not pack, yet– to be present at their training. But the attachment between Scott and Stiles was deep, and Stiles was welcome.) They trained in the woods, Stiles usually perched on the hood of his Jeep, watching, watching, watching, and providing commentary, like a sports reporter – _And, ouch, ladies and gentlemen, Cora strikes yet again as Derek Hale stumbles to the ground with his face in the dirt, the_ dirt _, man, that was a spec-ta-cu-lar fail, I would be embarrassed to show my face around here aga- No, Christ don’t,_ he warned _, I’m only joking-_ he ran at full speed only to be caught by the Beta, his own face in the dirt. 

No, it wasn’t only physical. There was something else, this need to be where he was, this need to tell him details about his day that were completely mundane and uninteresting. He felt embarrassed sometimes as he babbled on about his latest assignment in school, the movie he’d watched the night before, pieces of trivia he acquired (“Did you know snails can sleep for like two or three years at a time?” “You know those things at the end of your shoelaces? Yeah, they’re called aglets.”). Often, Derek would ignore him, obviously not interested in the unusually large amount of information flowing out of Stiles’ mouth. It happened that Derek would just put a stop to it. “You are really annoying,” Derek had once said, straight-faced. “And you are refreshingly honest,” he had replied, sentence trailing off as he remembered he’d said the exact same thing to Evan once –did he have a type, then? He pushed the memory aside. “A ray of sunshine, really. I’m so glad I met you.” Smack to the back of his head. Derek was careful enough not to bruise or actually hurt him. Stiles smacked back.

But for all their banter and the occasional dirty look cast to one another, Stiles couldn’t help but notice: Derek was still there around him. And, if Stiles didn’t feel too confident about it, he would from time to time let his senses take over and the proof was there: a certain feeling, one he couldn’t really put a name to –though his mind supplied the word fondness next to the also present lust. It was a good feeling, exciting. Derek’s face was mostly still a mask of perfectly contained emotion, but the pack, which was slowly starting to include Stiles, was privy to occasional smiles.

The others weren’t blind either: there was teasing and goading, a wink here and a comment there, and while Derek growled – _growled–_ at it, Stiles laughed. Laura was over the moon, happy for her brother.

 

+

 

Stiles was proud he’d made the first move. When he’d been together with Evan, it wasn’t him who took initiative, he just kind of let it happen to him –not that he had objected. But this was different. This was Derek, a guy who for some reason was as closed as a bolted door. One day, weeks and weeks after that dinner, Scott had addressed Stiles’ … what was it, interest? Crush? Infatuation? (Stiles refused to put a label on it).

“Stiles, are you,” Scott paused, “Uhm, are you, like, do you have a crush on Derek?” Stiles didn’t pause the video game, instead brutally attacked Scott’s player while his best friend was distracted by the question he’d just asked. “Haha, sucker! You need to pay more attention to your game.” Scott made fake distressed sounds as he tried to salvage the virtual catastrophe. “No, no, no, no, stupid, MOVE LEFT, damn it.”

Stiles won the game, and then turned to Scott. “To answer your question, yeah, I guess so.”

Scott looked at him strangely, “Derek? Derek, who _looks as if he kills bunnies in his sleep_ , Derek?”

“I only know that one Derek, Scotty. Honestly, I don’t really know how to explain any of it, so I’m not gonna try. I mean, he’s just … I don’t know, I, I just …” Stiles was frowning, he was confused by the situation himself. He just liked Derek. His short answers, his low bullshit tolerance, the way he looked at him, trying to be subtle about it –he wasn’t.  

“Like him,” Scott finished for him.

“What?” Stiles had been in lost in thought.

“You just like him,” Scott repeated.

“Yeah.”

“Huh,” and then “Hmm.”

“What, good _hmm_ or bad _hmm_?” People really needed to be clearer.

“Uh, I guess good _hmm_. Derek’s not so bad,” Scott said and shrugged.

It was as if that was all that had been necessary: a confession to his friend. Later that day, he went over to the Hales. He pushed his father to the back of his mind. Stiles wanted this. Knock-knock. Cora opened the door wordlessly –though he did receive a nod– and walked to the kitchen. Laura was nowhere to be seen. “Uh, okay,” he said to the retreating form of the youngest Hale. “I’m just gonna,” he pointed to the spiral staircase in the corner of the room. Derek’s room was unfamiliar territory to him but he knew it was the first door to the left. Derek opened the door, stepped out and closed the door again before Stiles could knock or enter without warning, a more probable outcome.

“Hey, there, big guy.” He offered a megawatt smile.

“Stiles.” Derek walked passed him and down the stairs. Stiles followed him. They stood in the living room and Stiles eyed him appreciatively, up and down. “What?” Derek asked, irritated. “Nothing.” Everything.

Nerves jittered as he prepared to execute his plan –which wasn’t really a plan. He was aware his heart was beating a little too fast to be considered normal and that Derek could hear it. “What’s going on, Stiles?”

Stiles shook his head and repeated, “Nothing, just, come with me for a second.” He started walking to the front door when he heard Derek say, “Why?”

Stiles sighed, “God, do you ever just go with the flow, just _come on_.” Derek cocked an eyebrow and Stiles added in a fake whisper, “I don’t bite. Hell, I don’t even bark.” Derek’s response was an exasperated head tilt, as if he was dealing with a child. Stiles snorted and went back to where Derek was still standing and pulled at his arm, toward the door. He wanted privacy, even though Cora would probably not care.

Silence reigned during the three flights of stairs and was broken by the loud squeak of the main entrance of the apartment block. Both of them stood outside in the cold autumn air, little clouds of air escaping their mouths. Derek looked at him expectantly, _what now?_ Stiles wasn’t fooled by the hostile look. He took Derek’s left hand and put it on his waist. The guy now looked caught off guard, unsure, but Stiles only gave him a few seconds to back out while he looked at Derek. Those few seconds were horrible, but in a good way. Derek didn’t back out. Neither did Stiles. Stiles smirked and kissed him, long and hard. _Bazinga_

 

+

 

Keeping his empathic abilities a secret –oh, how he’d grown to _hate_ that word-, was easier than expected. One, he tried to use them as little as possible. Two, he was an avid believer of The Vague Answer. One day during early spring the group was training. Scott explained to him that wolves ran warmer, so it was normal for them to do their training wearing next to nothing. “It’s too hot, otherwise,” Scott complained, gesturing to his in sweat-covered body. Stiles had adapted the habit of not inhaling too deeply near the end of one of these sessions.

Stiles had been shamelessly ogling Derek, and more specifically his triskele tattoo. “Enjoying the view, little man?” Laura grinned as she took a seat next to Stiles, the car dipping at the extra weight. Seeing no point in lying he answered in the affirmative. “Yes, very.” Derek turned around and immediately cursed his distraction as he got tackled by Scott with a loud _thud_. Cora cackled on the sidelines, the sound almost foreign to everyone’s ears.

“It’s a cool tattoo, I gotta admit,” Stiles pointed to where Derek was getting up, ready to retaliate and smirking as Scott took a step back, hesitance visible on his face. The two were soon a blur of movement, the tattoo impossible to distinguish amongst the attacking bodies.

Laura snickered, “ _He_ thought it was cool, too.”

Stiles hadn’t seen any other tattoos inked on their skin. “None of you have any?”

“Not my thing, I don’t like the permanence of it. The finality,” Laura explained. Cora had been circling Scott and Derek, occasionally going in for an attack when one of them was caught off guard. Now she walked over to them, fed up with standing around, probably.

“There’s always laser removal,” Stiles reminded her. She shook her head. “Doesn’t work with us. The way we ink our bodies is different, and we can’t remove them. So, it’s pretty final.”

Stiles mulled that over, “Yeah, pretty permanent. Damn.” Cora chose to sit on the hood of Derek’s car next to the Jeep.

Laura looked at him, up and down, “I don’t really see you with tattoos,” and Cora added “You couldn’t pull it off.” He didn’t need super-hearing to catch that. A non-committal grunt escaped his lips as he looked down, seeing a pattern of flying birds moving on his ankles. He needed to buy new pants: that second growth spurt had come out of nowhere. “No, really, you thinking about it?” Laura asked, interested.

“I’ve never thought of anyone inking my body,” he supplied. It seemed vague enough. She looked at him peculiarly, the stiff way he said it uncharacteristic. No lie was detected because it was true; he _had_ never thought of letting anyone prick ink into his skin. With the overlapping tattoos that appeared and disappeared, he was sure it would look weird. At the very start, Stiles had been freaked out by the lines moving around. Now, he admitted he liked it. It was part of him, forever mobile. Often the same patterns would return –for example a length of chains along the sides of his upper body, the metal squares opening and closing as he twisted his upper body or breathed deeply, in, out, in, out, as his lungs filled with air and his chest expanded and contracted. That particular one was his favourite, it was fascinating to watch.

“You are strange,” Laura offered. He stuck his tongue out. “Says the supernatural creature.” A nanosecond later he felt bad about saying it. It was a joke, yes, but it felt wrong. _He_ was one, too. Weren’t they in the same boat? Suddenly, he wanted to tell them so badly. He leaned forward slightly, opened his mouth, intake of breath, remembered, and shut down again. The movements escaped Laura’s notice while she had been shouting out a critique over the way Scott always dodged too late –Stiles didn’t know why she shouted, they could hear her anyways, but he supposed she was doing it for his sake. What did not escape her notice was his anger building up. _All this dishonesty, these lies, the stupid agreements and deals._ Stiles ignored the look she threw his way as he hopped off the Jeep and took the bottle of water thrown on the floor of the passenger seat of his car. Gulping, he imagined the water transporting the secret he was about to utter from his mouth deep into his body where it wouldn’t escape. Locked, but loaded.

This feeling of wanting to get it out was a recurring one. Usually he pushed it away, returned to listen to Scott rattling on about god knows what or focused on the movie they were all watching over at Scott’s – _pack bonding,_ they called it. Melissa sometimes joined them, but overall didn’t have that much spare time, being a single mother with a demanding job. Circles under her eyes were washed away by the smile she oftensported. Stiles missed his mom. It was on these occasions, spiralling down into a pit of sadness, that he wanted to say _something._ Stiles hadn’t needed long to see that the Hales were good people, trustworthy. They trusted him to be part of the pack –one day Laura had whispered it quietly, _of course you’re pack_ -, but he didn’t trust them with his secret. Correction, the _empaths,_ plural, didn’t trust them. He realized that it wasn’t only his secret to keep. However much he wanted to spill it, his father didn’t, Charlie and Rose didn’t.

 

+

 

“Safety first, Essie,” his father said while cleaning up the mess on the floor in the kitchen. Stiles had thrown his homework across the room, accidentally knocking a glass of juice on the floor. It was a mess of sticky fluid and shards of glass. Stiles had refused to clean it up, not until they would talk. His father, however, was robotically cleaning, carefully picking pieces of glass and putting them into a plastic bag.

“But it _is_ safe, they are safe! I’m always careful if I’m around them.” He was careful to say _if_ , not _when_. “They’re not monsters, they’re like us, _different_ , why are you so sure they wouldn’t accept it? Why do you choose to see the worst in people?” His father glared at him, “People? They are _werewolves_ -,” “And we’re _empaths,_ dad. Not hunters, not murderers, not psychopaths.” His dad was silent now, no longer angry, before he said, “Your mother was none of those, yet she’s …” The word _dead_ didn’t make it out. It felt like a punch to the gut. Why did his dad keep bringing her up like this? It was a returning dynamic –Stiles pleading, his father _explaining_ his motives as to why it needed to be quiet. Except it wasn’t explaining. It was more like … he didn’t know what to call it. The words _using her_ came to mind, and he was disgusted by it.

His dad looked like a wreck during these conversations, pain clear across his face, and Stiles didn’t even need to sense anything to know it was genuine. Long, broken lines appeared around his father’s neck and shoulders, as if twisting themselves around the man’s collarbones, pulling him apart. The sight was enough to back off. Stiles always backed off. His father always forgave him. Square one. Regardless of the outcome and the agreements he kept –keep away from the Hales, keep your secret- the first promise was broken regularly. Very often, he realized. But he did it anyways. From an early age on, Stiles was aware he was attracted to risk somewhat: mischief in school, disobeying authority figures and such. As a young adult, it was no different. With a snort he realized that that may very well be one of the reasons he was halfway in love with Derek Hale. No, Derek wasn’t dangerous, but he was taboo. Stiles wasn’t supposed to fall for him. He cringed inwardly at the forbidden fruit aspect of it all. But it excited him, there was no denying that. Why do we want the things we can’t have? Shouldn’t have?

His father had no clue about his infatuation with Derek –let alone that is was reciprocated. (“Boy, for all my being so very annoying, you sure do seem to like me.”Stileshad never claimed he was good at flirting. “Really. Says who?”Derek looked unimpressed as Stiles pointed to himself, grinning like a moron. “Moron,” Derek read his mind. “Whatever.” Stiles closed the distance between the two. Derek looked slightly more impressed once Stiles pulled away.) Seeing as Melissa and his dad were close, Stiles had no doubt the Sheriff knew at least _something_ of his hanging out with the Hale pack from time to time. It couldn’t be avoided. And those conversations weren’t pleasant either. Stiles lied and said he wasn’t hanging out with them that much, really. His father rubbed the back of his neck and stared at him, hard. Stiles lied some more. He started making a list about how often he lied about it. It wasn’t pretty and he destroyed the evidence quickly, eyes watching small flames eat up the paper.

The amount of unpleasant conversations seemed to override the familiar, happy ones from earlier in his youth. More of the same type of unpleasant conversations were the discussions of his future. College, great. The thing was, he just didn’t know what he wanted to do. And all these people kept pressuring him: his father, Charlie, occasionally Laura, Miss Malyena, the guidance counsellor at school he had visited once after he had been caught smoking in the bathroom (he was not a smoker, he’d just wanted to try it out, and Evan had had some mild pot with him, as well as a death wish apparently, seeing as he had willingly tried it out at _school_. Evan hadn’t worried about it, and he hadn’t even seemed to mind getting detention for two months. Stiles had, but had begrudgingly accepted it: he had after all partaken in the smoking. Derek had called him an idiot, the rest agreed.).

The guidance counsellor was also in charge of providing information about universities for the students. She shoved brochures down his throat, full of clever words and pictures of happy college kids trying to lure students in. Stiles was all about learning, he wanted to learn, always had been hungry for knowledge. But he didn’t really know what it was he wanted to do. Weeks, months, he had spent mulling it over, lists with pros and cons of certain colleges and different fields of study. In the end, he opted for psychology. Scott had given him a surprised look, _You? Psychology?_ , and Laura had smiled supportively. Derek had looked wary, “Really?” and then Stiles had punched him in the shoulder –ouch. True, he wasn’t the most tactful person out there, but something about psychology was perfect, in a way. He could –did- have a good understanding of people. An image of himself as a therapist popped up in his head, a romanticised idea of being able to truly understand another person and help them, and it convinced him. He wanted to help people, like his father. Law enforcement didn’t appeal to him at all, and this was something with a little more flourish. His father was supportive of his choice,less so about it being Beacon Hills University Stiles chose. “You don’t want to see the world a bit? Go places, see things?” It was the expected thing, right? Young adults, venturing life and trying new things. But Stiles tried to be honest with himself, words Evan had said once ringing in his head, _There’s no need to apologize for who you are_. And what Stiles wanted, was to stay in Beacon Hills. If that made him boring, so be it.

Rose was excited for him, much more than he was for himself. “Oh, Essie, I can just see it,” she said theatrically, “You, sitting in a chair, glasses on your nose, nodding along and saying ‘And how do you feel about that?’” Her brother threw in a laugh and said “You are a cliché, Rosie.” Stiles realized with a pang he hadn’t seen them as much during the past months. Lately, he had only gone to Peanuts to practice the mind control. Rose was busy with her own work having finished college. She was working alongside a teacher at a kindergarten, where she was a great success as children loved her outfits and listened with awe as she told them stories, complete with animated re-enactments. Evan, too, was mostly absent from Stiles’ training. Stiles didn’t ask after it, knowing he would get the truth but afraid he wouldn’t like it.

Training continued. Charlie was impressed at his abilities and Stiles didn’t know how to feel when he detected pride but also fear as she looked at him. Ever the master of ignorance is bliss, Stiles closed his eyes and concentrated while he assumed his second favourite yoga pose (next to lotus), the plow pose: shoulders on the floor, torso straight in the air, knees almost touching his forehead as he straightened his legs to touch the floor with the tip of his toes. He still thought he looked ridiculous, but yoga had grown on him. He breathed in and out and in and out, commanding Charlie to run to other side of the room. She practically flew, as if stood in that spot the only remedy to save a dying man. He willed her to say she was hungry. She spoke the words effortlessly, as if natural. He told her mind she was tired. She yawned. It got too real, and Charlie wanted to stop.

“I know you’ve told me before, but I just wanted to tell you, too. I haven’t forgotten what it means, to play with someone’s mind like that.” It still gave him a small kick, but it also terrified him. Watching Charlie as she did exactly as he bade, he felt like bugs were crawling on his skin, nothing like the feeling he had when he was near werewolves. No, this was different. It was detestable, and a feeling that wasn’t supernatural at all. You didn’t need to be an empath to feel this. He left, feeling drained with legs heavy as he slugged through imaginary sand.

He went over to the Hales that evening, answers short and sluggish as he explained he was just tired from working. Cora watched with the smallest hint of a smile, pricking at pieces of watermelon as Derek hauled a half-asleep Stiles up the stairs. After a two-hour nap he awoke, Derek busy on his laptop searching for a job. Touching Derek in all the right places, his mood lifted as he forgot about the bugs crawling on his skin. They were secluded from the rest of the world, lying on the bed in Derek’s bedroom. Stiles climbed on top of Derek, mischievous smile on his face and bent forward as he cut off whatever words were about to fall out of Derek’s mouth –no protest. Whenever he opened his eyes, he saw that his entire body was painted with dark lines. Any tattoo artist would be jealous. His dad thought he was staying over at Scott. Scott was covering for him. Another day, another lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw this post recently on tumblr, and couldn't help but laugh, bc I'd unknowingly turned Cora into one of these.
> 
> http://alyseofwonderland.tumblr.com/post/101189225597/im-starting-to-think-adventure-time-is-reality
> 
> Rats! I don't know how to make a link of this. Anyone? Either way, you should look at the gifs, they're hilarious.


	15. Rose

 

+

Rose

 

“Do you still love him?” I was hesitant to throw that word around, _love_ , but I’d always thought Evan loved him. My brother looked up suddenly, a blank look on his face. Asking an innocent “Who?” would be useless, he knew who I was talking about. Maybe three years ago, I wouldn’t have believed him when he answered, “No,” but now I did. Truth teller, or Truth Tenner, I sometimes called him. Sometimes it was a bit shocking just how honest he was. I wasn’t used to it, yet. “Well, I’m not _in_ love with him anymore, but I still care about him, if that’s what you mean.” Before I could stop myself, a pitying smile was on my face. Evan immediately said, “Please don’t smile like that, it’s fine.” Did I pity him? I knew Stiles had never felt the same way about my brother.

“Sorry,” I said, but Evan was confident. “It’s fine, truly,” he shrugged. It was unbelievable: anyone else doing the exact same thing, and I would’ve called their bullshit. But I believed him. And I sensed he felt no sadness, maybe just a hint of disappointment. 

It wasn’t as if Evan was heartbroken. They had separated almost a year ago, and in the meantime Evan had been with other people. Even about that, he kept no secrets. True, he didn’t go running to our mother yelling about his sex life, but he didn’t hide it if she asked, either. I was envious of him in a way. The calm confidence he had adopted had an effect on people. “Teach me your ways, oh, wise man,” I had demanded one evening. Because for all my exuberant personality, _a firecracker_ I’ve been called, confidence was something I sometimes lacked once I retreated to my own room. He didn’t understand it, asking me “Why, for god’s sakes?” I had no answer. I stared into the mirror, searching my face, following my long and flat nose as I moved my head around. Behind the scenes, people are different, I found. Not Evan, though. He’s always the same, unchanged by anyone or anything. It was a damn attractive quality, and I was certainly not the last one to think so.

“Why’d you ask?” Evan toyed with the pencil in his hand, using his other hand to scratch his ear. I let out a sigh, “Dunno. I just wanted to know, that’s all.” My brother asked me if I missed him. We were sitting in the kitchen on the first floor, mom working downstairs. “Yeah, I do.” I did. I wasn’t dumb, I knew why contact between the three of us had died down. The Hale pack. In my head, I said it with malice. In real life, though, I said it like it was just a fact. And it was just a fact. It wasn’t as if Stiles ignored us all of a sudden. It just happened: people drift apart. He still came for training and sometimes stayed for a drink after, but outside of that, not so much.

I knew that Stiles didn’t have it easy, especially with John. The last time I’d seen the Sheriff was when he’d swung by after his day shift, a whiskey next to him as he asked mom how Stiles was doing. He was doing fine, good even, mom had told me. “You shouldn’t worry too much about him, John. I will always worry about him, Charlie.” I worried, too. Mom had explained to us about what happened to Claudia.I still remember having Es over at our house, Evan probably too young. The way she had died was brutal, and I didn’t blame the Sheriff for being overprotective. Losing family like that … Memories of Dad ran through my mind, and I thought I was lucky, on some level. Dad had died in a peaceful way, unlike Claudia. I didn’t like to dwell on it, but was reminded of it whenever the topic of the Hales and Stiles came up, which was honestly less and less.

I looked down at my paper, a carefully laid out plan for tomorrow’s activities with the kids. “I hope they’re good to him”, Evan murmured. “Me, too.” I returned to counting if I had enough party hats and candles for the birthday party planned tomorrow. Evan sat staring at his homework –a whole bunch of graphs I didn’t understand anything of– and eventually gave up with a groan, forehead resting against the table as he tapped to Bob Dylan playing in the background. He smiled at me and we joined in to Hurricane. _Yes, here's the story of the Hurricane, the man the authorities came to blame for somethin' that he never done, put in a prison cell, but one time he could-a been, the champion of the world._


	16. Derek

 

+

Derek

 

Derek Hale was a private guy. He couldn’t stand people poking in his business, putting their noses where they didn’t belong. He didn’t like the stares he got when people found out he was a werewolf, and his curt way of dealing with it probably didn’t help to get rid of the werewolf stereotype –the angered, violent beast. Derek didn’t buy into the whole We-acknowledge-werewolves-exist-and-we-support-it spiel. What a load of bullshit. It was a façade, a fucking polite and diplomatic one. Smelling the fear that poured off some people was firsthand proof. All werewolves were aware of it. “Don’t try to tell me otherwise,Laura.” She hadn’t. Instead, she told him that was just the way it was, and he’d have to deal with it, “Like the rest of us.”

The move to Beacon Hills was sudden. It was a shock: his uncle, Peter, was alive and walking? He had done _what? He fucking bit someone?_ It was a nightmare. Laura had been completely frantic, for once losing her Alpha cool. They’d hopped on a plane and dealt with the aftermath of the psychotic werewolf. But once they’d arrived in California, everything just had gotten worse. Derek sat, mouth falling slightly open as the authorities listed victims. Peter, before brilliantly biting a fucking teenager out of the blue, had killed innocent people along the way. Derek had never seen his sister so enraged and ashamed simultaneously, but mostly, sad. In the end, Laura had offered to take care of Peter –the law had referred to it as _putting him down_ , the words offensive to his ears. People saw them as animals, Derek felt.

Laura was grief-stricken. Another family member dead. Peter had never been kind, or caring. Though he was a Beta, he had behaved like an Omega. Derek had never known what his uncle was up to when he disappeared as he often would. Peter liked to be alone, and liked to be malicious. But he was gone now.

New York hadn’t been good for them. Derek avoided confrontation and didn’t talk about the past. Cora was just silent. Laura was unsuccessfully trying to get them to communicate, all three of them. _Fuck off_ was a sentence he had often yelled at her when she wouldn’t stop. After a while, though, she had stopped accepting his way of grieving, that is to say, by avoiding it. She had cornered him in their dingy house in Queens and refused to let him pass unless he told her what was on his mind. Derek was no match for her Alpha strength, and a glance at Cora –standing in the background, not willing to interfere– told him he wouldn’t be able to count on his younger sister for help. After about an hour-long silent standoff –the Hales were excellent at his, especially the two younger ones–, he caved. He didn’t deal with the past because the guilt swallowed him whole. Day by day, he told them what had happened when their old house had burned down, _who_ had burned it down.

When they finally got the full story, Laura stared at him, a hard look in her eyes as she viciously put a lock of dark hair behind her ear, “Don’t you _ever_ think that what that _psycho_ did to you was your fault.” “How the hell can you tell me it’s not?” But she wouldn’t even let him explain himself: she drilled it into him, _it wasn’t your fault, it wasn’t your fault._ Cora surprised him by speaking entire sentences as she agreed with her sister.

Derek’s guilt was still there, though, gnawing and twisting in his stomach. He cursed himself for being such an idiot and keeping the truth hidden from them for that long. They were a pack, and there weren’t supposed to be any secrets. “Damn right, little bro”, Laura had said when he’d apologized. So, the truth was out, the guilt melted away at a glacial pace, but the anger he felt towards the woman who’d caused the tragedy remained. He tried not to think about it.

When they had settled in Beacon Hills, they were still stuck in a place with each other Derek hated: there was still too much silence, too much of being careful around each other. Enter Scott who, despite it being against his will, had become a werewolf. Laura, Melissa and Scott had talked for about an hour, and in the end it was decided: they would stay, and Scott would be a Beta, their Beta. The Sheriff of Beacon Hills, a man with sandy blond hair named John Stilinski, had been present to ensure everything was done legally. Derek and Cora sat silently as they let their Alpha lead the conversation.

Things went smoother than he expected, a true first in his life. Scott, _an actual puppy_ according to Laura, was good for the pack. He wasn’t family, but it wasn’t as if they had any spares of those around. The teenager was angry at the world, cursed his luck, but in the end accepted his fate. Thankfully, he soon warmed up to Derek and Cora. The fact that the most capable of danger amongst them was always best liked didn’t surprise him at all. Laura was a warm person. And honestly, Derek was glad it wasn’t _him_ who had to be the Alpha. Being diplomatic and patient was not his thing.

That fact was put in evidence as another player entered the scene: Stiles Stilinski. The walking ball of jittery nerves really got on his. But that wasn’t the first thing he’d noticed about him. If he remembered correctly, the first coherent thought he had the first time the guy was in their apartment was _fuck. He’s beautiful._ And then Stiles had opened his mouth and made some joke about dogs, and Derek had been pulled out of his daydream.

But he wasn’t disappointed. Stiles soon differentiated himself from the average prejudiced human: he wasn’t scared, not really. From time to time, a spike of fear would hit the guy, but he seemingly always shrugged it off. Apart from that, he also wasn’t prejudiced. From what Derek could see, Stiles didn’t think along the lines of, _animals, animals, that’s what they are._ But the main reason they had accepted him into their pack, though the process was slow, was that Stiles was good for Scott. Scott basically had three strangers in his life all of a sudden telling him what to do and it wasn’t easy on him. Stiles helped him through it. Maybe not consciously, but the three Hales could see it. In Derek’s own mind, Stiles started to be something other than ‘good for Scott’. It changed from ‘that weird guy’, to ‘that guy’ to ‘that fucking guy’, to ‘that guy I want to fuck’.

Derek didn’t object when Laura whispered in the human’s ear that he was pack, it was good for them all. He also didn’t object for other reasons, but he wasn’t about to entertain the rest of them. Stiles occupied his mind more than he like to admit. The increasingly frequent presence was bold and daring, and when he made his move, sure of himself, Derek let him.

He liked him. Most of the time, anyway, but that was enough. He was pretty sure they would _actually_ end up strangling each other at some point, if it weren’t for the fact that they also spent time away from each other. Derek knew Stiles worked at a bar. He knew Stiles spent a lot of his time on his schoolwork –Scott infinitely less. Derek himself spent time training and trying to find a job,which was a lot more difficult than he’d originally thought it would be _._ They both had a life outside of the one they shared.

It wasn’t perfect, but nothing is. Stiles was an oddball. Sometimes, for no apparent reason, he would clamp up, shut down and stop talking. It reminded Derek of himself, actually. Stiles would offer no explanation other than being tired, and no blip in his heart betrayed his response. Derek suggested he quit working at the bar, a simple and stubborn “No” the only reply. The usual way their fighting worked out involved naked limbs and closed doors, either sleeping or having sex. Or both. 

Curious about the bar, Derek went one evening. It had opened only an hour before, and he found Stiles sitting on a bar stool with his head on his hands in front of him, half asleep. “Isn’t your boss going to fire you for being a lazy fuck?” Stiles looked up but didn’t look surprised to see him. “Hello, Derek.” His speech sounded slurred. Derek frowned. “Seriously, did you just wake up? You sound half dead.” A woman appeared before them, a ratty towel slung over her shoulder. She looked at him with something akin to defiance and held her chin up. “Essie? Who’s your friend?” _Essie?_ “Charlie, Derek, Beta of Hale clan, Derek, Charlie, owner of bar,” Stiles muttered as he swished his hand back and forth. How hard were they working him, jesus?

“Hello.” “Hi.” It didn’t go much further than that: Charlie walked away. Derek turned to the slumped figure. “Stiles, what the hell are they doing to you here?” Stiles laughed lazily, “Nothing, you worry wart,” Derek lifted his brows.

“Seriously, nothing. Bad day, is all. Headache.” He rubbed at his temples and yawned.

“Then why didn’t you go home?” Stiles let out a grunt. “Too tired to move. Plus, Evan gave me some aspirin, so all is well.” “Her son, right?” Stiles let out a tired sigh. “Uh-huh. She has a daughter, too, Rosie. I bet you two would hit it off.” He smiled as if he knew a secret Derek didn’t. “A _true_ ray of sunshine, that one.” Stiles sounded as if he was drunk, speaking too slowly.

Derek sat at the next barstool for a while: Stiles didn’t want to move. Derek looked around and heard two heartbeats coming from upstairs. Probably her children. In the bar were more people. They sat, sipping and nibbling on peanuts – _real funny-_ , quietly talking and boisterously laughing. Derek liked the place. It was calm and dark, the perfect atmosphere to fall asleep. A quick listen told him Stiles had actually fallen asleep in a matter of two minutes. “Okay,” –he shook him awake– “ _Essie_ , let’s go. You need to sleep.” It wasn’t even that late and he was a teenager for god’s sake. He was supposed to be brimming with energy, not perched on a counter in a bar, half dead. 

Stiles let out an unintelligent _mmmmyea_ and got off his stool. He pointed a thumb to the ceiling. “Backpack. I’ll be back.” Derek heard him say goodbye to the two upstairs and followed his loud thumps down the stairs, wondering if Stiles would trip in his state of half slumber. He didn’t.

Before Stiles got back, Charlie stopped him as he got out of the narrow hall. She placed a hand on his the side of his head, “It’s fine, it’s fine,” Stiles said reassuringly. Derek felt her eyes dart over to him quickly, and Stiles said again, “It’s fine.” The woman didn’t move, “All right. Your father know where you’re going?” Now, Stiles looked awake, annoyed even. Derek could still make out his features in the dim light, and he had followed the words Stiles said, though he should probably have given him privacy. When Stiles didn’t answer, the woman reprimanded him by using some name Derek didn’t recognize. Seriously, how many nicknames was he not aware of? “Go home,” she told Stiles. 

Derek walked over. “I’m going wait outside.” Stiles nodded and he added to Charlie, “Nice to meet you.” It was one of those things he hated, a stupid courtesy. Stiles came out about three minutes later, face splotchy. “I gather you don’t want to talk about it.” He opened the passenger door and Stiles shrugged him off, “You gather correctly. Drive me home.” Derek wanted to talk about it: the Sheriff wasn’t aware of them being involved, and for some reason Stiles didn’t want to tell him about it. Stiles remained stubbornly silent, feigning sleep. He drove Stiles home, a police cruiser in the driveway. Stiles was sad, but got out quickly and didn’t give Derek the time to ask why.

 

+

Derek

 

Out of the blue, while watching TV at Stiles’ house –the Sheriff wasn’t home-, Stiles told him he’d dated the son of that woman who owned the bar. _Evan_ , Derek’s mind supplied. Had it been serious? Stiles was vague about that, but just told Derek they were still friendly. He didn’t know where the sudden revelation came from but was glad it had come. Before Stiles had said it, he’d been in one of those moods again –quiet, shut off. Derek was glad Stiles was willing to finally share what was on his mind. 

It was a nice feeling. 

Derek leaned over, tilted his head and kissed him. Fingers cradled in his black hair and he felt teeth tugging at his bottom lip. Before he knew it, Derek had been dragged sideways, and was lying with his back on the couch, an overeager Stiles on top of him. The way Stiles was with Derek’s body was the way he went about everything: thoroughly. He wanted to know how it worked, how it reacted, good or bad, how it tired out, how it moved. And, for once, Derek didn’t mind anyone studying him so closely, completely. Another nice feeling, being wanted.


	17. Dominoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: Violence and sex (not together).

_Heed your father’s warnings, he gave them for a reason._

 

“I still think we should’ve put in tomatoes. Who makes salad without friggin’ tomatoes?”

His best friend answered simply, “Anyone with taste buds. Ugh, tomatoes.” Stiles did not understand why so many people hated the red vegetable. He let out a monstrous sigh, letting himself fall back only to bump against someone’s knee –Cora, staring at him with eyes shooting daggers. “Whoops, sorry- no, you know what? I’m not sorry. I shouldn’t apologize for something so trivial. I don’t understand that, people are always apologizing for absolutely nothing. It’s super annoying.” Cora looked at him, frowning. “How did you manage to find someone to date you?” “Ask your brother,” he said as he rolled sideways, safe out of Cora’s grasp. He ended up near Derek’s legs, a preferable choice. 

It was a sunny afternoon near the end of the school year. Exams were over, only two weeks left of school in which people skipped more classes than in the previous years combined. Students lazed about, stayed out too late, drank too much and cared little about school anymore. Stiles didn’t think Evan would show up once during the whole two weeks. It had been about a month since he’d seen either Rose or Evan.

They were in the woods, sunlight peeking through leaves and casting splotches on their faces. “Tomorrow, we’re having a picknick”, Laura had pronounced, only to receive unenthused glances. Stiles and Scott were tired after their exams, petered out. Derek and Cora didn’t really like the sound of a picknick, but their Alpha was adamant. “We’re _going_.” The result was a quickly assembled assortment of summer foods and the Hale pack in Beacon Hills preserve outside the city. Currently, Stiles was half asleep next to Derek who was reading _La ciudad de los prodigios_ by Eduardo Mendoza, not paying attention to Stiles. Scott was texting someone, probably that girl he’d been crushing on for a while – ever since he’d become a werewolf and on top of that a star player on the lacrosse team, Scott had been on the receiving end of apprehension as well as flirting. The two female members of the pack were talking quietly, eating couscous.

Stiles was in heaven. Being pressed lazily against someone warm felt good, it was the right amount of heat amongst the cool trees. He let his guard down and took a sweep of the space, letting his senses do the job. Everyone was so at peace, it was intoxicating. He turned his head around so he could look up at the trees. Colours brightened and contrasts sharpened and when he blinked, neon leaves were printed on his corneas, the sun playing a trick on his eyes. To be honest, it kind of hurt. It was too sharp. He focused on touch instead, and slowly put one finger after the other against Derek’s side. An entire hand. Derek looked at him questioningly and Stiles winked before putting his forehead against the guy’s leg. _Nuts_ , _that’s what you probably look like._ He didn’t care. When they had sex, it was often too difficult to focus on his senses and he hardly ever managed to concentrate on heightened touch unless they were going slow. Stiles liked fast, though. 

Distracted by grunts, Stiles peeked over Derek’s legs to see Cora and Laura sparring somewhere ahead, getting further and further away from the group. He got an idea, one that was picked on up by Derek as his heart rate increased. Scott was still lying on the ground holding his phone in the air, furiously texting. The phone had fallen on his face twice already, Stiles didn’t understand why Scott didn’t sit differently. He got up and tugged at Derek’s hand –he wouldn’t be able to pull him up even if he wanted to, the man weighed a ton. A warm, pleasant heavy ton, but a ton nonetheless. Derek followed him, walking faster and now pulling Stiles’ arm instead.

“Far enough?” Stiles asked, and the answer was open-mouthed kissing so he assumed it was. Stiles could feel the lust radiating off of Derek, and was pretty sure the other guy felt the exact same thing coming from him. He didn’t know how they ended up on the ground next to that misshapen tree –weren’t they standing near that boulder before? Stiles whispered some words he was afraid to say out loud, and Derek whispered something back. He was aware of a stupid small branch prodding at his lower back and let out a big grunt as he moved Derek sideways, who let himself fall with a loud thud. Then he divided his weight between his two knees, one planted beneath Derek’s crotch and the other next his stomach on the ground. He couldn’t tell anymore whose breathing was louder.

But shit happens, and his mind was clouded as Laura pulled him off, saying something to Derek. She pulled her brother up as well, and Stiles started following the conversation. They weren’t alone, a group of –if she was correct- Omegas was approaching. They smelled feral, she added. Fear hit him in the chest, a flash of heat shocking him out of the daze. And he could _feel_ the Omegas. Lines of lust on his arm, wild and thick, turned raggedy and thin as electricity buzzed on his skin. He needed to get the hell out of there, now. Stiles would not give his father another reason to distrust werewolves, nor would he give him a second grave to visit. For once, Stiles was not stubborn and followed Laura’s orders: Scott was to bring him to the Jeep as fast as he could so that Stiles could leave unharmed and alert the police who would come with backup. The rest of the pack would stay and try to prevent a bloodbath.

Someone took his hand, but he hardly registered it. Scott pulled at his other arm, “Stiles, come on, man. Stiles,” he repeated the name, louder. Stiles was trying not to panic, not really succeeding, “Yeah, yeah, I’m … yeah. Jeep.” They left in a rush, Stiles a little more clearheaded than before. Jeep. Phone call. Backup. Get the fuck home. Shit. _Shit, shit, shit. What’s dad going to say?_

They weren’t fast enough. Scott halted suddenly, looking over at his best friend. “Two of them.” They were already far from Derek and the rest. Scott snapped his head sideways and pushed his friend towards the direction of the cars, “Run, now, go!” Scott ran left. Stiles ran forward as fast as he could, but wasn’t for one moment fooled that he was safe. The electricity on his body seemed to spark and he heard rustling behind him as well as ragged breathing. It sounded as if the Omega had slime stuck in his throat. It was disgusting.

A body hit him from behind and Stiles landed on the ground, a leaf poking his eye. As he repeatedly blinked, moisture forming, he felt himself be turned around and hauled upright.

Two hands with claws were clamped around his neck. Stiles’ instincts kicked in and he pulled helplessly with all his might at the arms, trying to get them away. The wolves’ eyes were alight, angry and cold. Stiles struggled and thrashed wildly but he wasn’t getting any air, panic taking over. It hurt, badly. He could feel his windpipe starting to crush under the pressure.

 _Control him,_ his mind supplied. Of course. Stiles willed his body to stop sprawling, going against his instincts, while still pulling at the muscled forearms. Focus, focus, focus, focus. He tried to place himself in the shoes of the man opposite him, bending his will, tricking his mind into thinking he _did not want_ to harm the living thing he was currently choking. Stiles did his best to convey a sense of peace of mind, where all inclination to violence would disappear. All the hours full of frustration practicingwith Charlie paid off, because the grip on his throat loosened. The wolf let go.

Willing his attacker to back away, Stiles tried to keep his focus. His throat ached, and the noises coming out were dry and croaky. He wasn’t getting enough air. The entire time Stiles was breathing heavily he kept his eye on the wolf, who now looked confused. What surprised Stiles was the fact that Scott still hadn’t come back. Stiles was no match for the Omega. He was worried. Where was Scott? Was Derek okay? Laura and Cora?

Worrying about Scott and the others was messing with his focus. He could feel the Omega fighting against it and now the wolf didn’t look confused anymore, he looked angry. His stance had changed, taking on one that screamed _ready for attack_.

 _Shit shit shit shitshitshit,_ Stiles thought. He kept focusing, ignoring the throbbing pain and his broken breathing. The wolf carried a surprised yet furious expression on his face.

“You’re a fucking empath, you piece of shit. You really think I’m so easily tricked?” The guy spat the words at Stiles, a low rumble emitting from his mouth that sounded ten times worse with the mucus in the Omega’s throat.

Stiles was starting to feel lightheaded, he couldn’t muster the energy to talk back. In the corner of his eye, he saw movement and he prayed it was Scott. It was getting too much, a sharp and painful headache blooming suddenly. As he lost focus, Stiles fell backwards as his attacker sprinted forward, the hold broken. They fell like dominoes, and the edges of Stiles’ vision went black. When he could see clearly again, he saw Scott slashing the throat of the other wolf, an image that would haunt him in his dreams for months to come. Splatters of warm blood rained on his face. Drops landed on his lips and frantically he used the back of his hand to swipe them away, desperate to get the blood off.

Scott said things to him, his mouth moving and his hands touching Stiles to keep him upright. Next thing he knew, he was in his Jeep, Scott driving and on the phone. “No hospital,” Stiles croaked. “Are you joking?” Stiles told him no, take me home. Scott called his mother and left when she arrived at his house, saying he would be back. In the meantime, Stiles had changed his clothes and washed his face and arms, very carefully and thoroughly.

Melissa examined him as best as she could, angry at him for refusing to go the hospital. The truth was, going to the hospital would put his father in a frenzy. Stiles had already realized he wouldn’t be able to hide this from his father, so he tried to minimize damage. Hospitals make everything seem worse, right? She held on to his neck as she turned his head from side to side, treating him like he was made of glass. “Christ, Stiles, you’re not a werewolf, you need to watch out.” _As if I didn’t realize that. Crap._ Putting a hand on his cheek while frowning she told him he didn’t seem to have suffered too much damage. There would be bruising, and maybe obstructed breathing for a day or so, as well as difficulty to swallow. She wanted to keep him awake for the time being, and gave him a painkiller without any codeine in it so he wouldn’t fall asleep. 

It didn’t surprise him that his dad came busting through the door some time later, half running towards him, laying on the couch in the living room wile slowly sipping water. Scott had probably called for help at the police station. Stiles didn’t dare look him in the eye, and was glad Melissa explained the situation to his dad, calming him down as she said it wasn’t too bad. He would recover quickly.

 

+

 

Stiles felt worse in the evening, throat screaming at him. He could feel every pump of blood throbbing uncomfortably. Aware of the eyes following every move he made, he stayed silent as his father stood in the doorway and came back with soup. He was vaguely aware of Derek, Laura and Cora ringing the doorbell, and his father saying what Stiles needed right now was rest and, honestly, he was right: Stiles was falling in and out of sleep. Scott had come by before, and had taken as much of his pain as he could. The Sheriff had stayed in the room.

The next morning, he felt even worse. An entire day of painkillers, sleep and silence followed. On the second day after the attack he finally started feeling better. He got up to pee and stared at the ugly dark bruises on his neck. His dad gave him more soup. Melissa came by again, with her son in tow. They played Four Across –a damaged set six-year-old Stiles had demanded to be taken with from Sacramento– while their parents were drinking coffee in the kitchen.

Via text, he’d asked Derek to stay away for the time being, using his father’s worry as an excuse. He warned Derek, _dont try to climb into my room. just wait till it blows over._ The truth was, he would be completely fucked if Derek decided to stop by: his father would sense it.

_Why not? He won’t hear me._

_Just wait pls_

Derek was not happy, but complied.

 

+

 

In the privacy of his own room, he tested his voice. It was better than he expected, but still awful. He took a piece of paper and started writing:

 

_Please don’t say anything before you finish reading this. I know what you’re going to tell me. You’re going to shout at me for being stupid and you’ll be thinking ‘I told you so’ even though you won’t want to say it. I won’t start any of these sentences with a ‘but’ or an excuse. What happened was NOT their fault. It was the fault of those Omegas. Don’t blame the Hales for something they didn’t do, please, please. Blame me if you want to blame someone. I realize that this wouldn’t have happened if I’d just stayed away from them ~~but~~ I don’t want to stay away from them. Scotty is my best friend and I love him. I used mind control to get the one away from me and it worked. It took a second ~~but~~ and it worked. _

_I don’t want to have this conversation again, because you’ll yell at me, and I’ll yell back. ~~And that will hurt~~. I’m alive I’m alive and I promise you I will do everything I can to stay alive._

_I love you_

 

He purposely left Derek out. His dad still thought the only reason he hung out with the Hale pack was Scott.

After giving his dad the piece of paper, he waited anxiously in the living room. Watching the clock on the mantle, the minutes tricked away slowly as he kept waiting. Exactly twenty three minutes and thirty six seconds since he’d started counting, his father walked into the room. He sat next to Stiles, not saying a word. Stiles rarely saw his dad cry –but now he was. Feeling guilty, Stiles swung an arm over his dad’s shoulders. He saw his father nod. Stiles murmured, “I love you” and John said it back.

 

+

 

It was four days later and the first time they’d actually seen each other since the incident. Derek kept looking at him as Laura explained what happened to the omegas (currently locked up, awaiting trial). After spending some time with everyone downstairs, Derek asked him if he wanted to go to his room. The two sisters and Scott left to go grab a bite, leaving them with some privacy.

Stiles didn’t know what to expect, really. Usually, Derek wasn’t clingy at all. He understood the notion of personal space and respected Stiles’. Now, however, those ideas seemed lost on him. Derek wouldn’t let him go, his worried hands all over Stiles in a way that made him feel like he was suffocating. He seemed _a little upset_ , Stiles put it.

“A _little_ upset? You could have died, Stiles. For god’s sake, don’t trivialize this shit.” Derek let go of him and stood up. He was shouting. The guy always got angry when he was worried. Stiles replied calmly, “It’s not your fault this happened, okay?” Of course, Derek protested, but Stiles went on. “No, not your fault, it was the fault of those Omegas.” “But you wouldn’t have been in danger if we hadn’t-,”

“If, if, if, if, if!” Stiles interrupted quite loudly –his voice was recovering nicely. “I could die if I trip on the stairs and break my neck. I could die if there’s a drunken asshole on the road. Or if I was the drunken asshole. I could’ve died when Mr. Deckers hadn’t looked left that time I crossed the road with my earphones in. If, if, fucking if.” Derek obviously didn’t agree and Stiles tried to kiss him quiet but he pulled away, eyes an angry blue and earlier surge of clinginess gone. Stiles knew from experience he just had to wait for Derek to calm down and come back.

“Does it still hurt?” Stiles shook his head. “Bullshit,” Derek called and he pressed fingers to the bruised area, purple and green, draining the ache away. It was kind of funny: empaths could help people with emotional pain, werewolves with physical pain. Stiles smiled his first genuine smile since he arrived at their appartment.

The two of them sat down on Derek’s bed, Stiles leaning against the headboard with his legs sprawled on the covers, Derek a little further down with his arm outstretched so he could reach the bruises. It looked as if Derek didn’t dare come closer.

“You’re a goddamn roller coaster, Derek,” Stiles muttered. “One minute you can’t let go of me, then you push me away and now you’re scared to touch me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Right, convince me otherwise,” Stiles said with a roll of his eyes before staring at Derek, whose lips formed a tight line.

“I’m just…,” Derek began.

“Scared?” Stiles offered. Derek gave the barest hint of a nod. Had Stiles blinked, he wouldn’t have seen it. “Derek, you can’t be around me twenty-four-seven –besides, I would drive you nuts.” Derek snorted. “Exactly! Anyways, my point is, constant vigilance is impossible.” Stiles pushed himself off the headboard and sat next to Derek, his chin resting lightly on the guy’s shoulder –any pressure or sudden movement still left a bit of an ache. Derek looked sideways, cheek grazing Stiles’ temple. While plucking at the material of Derek’s shirt, he continued, “So, next time anything like this happens-,”

“ _Next time?”_ Derek bit out.

Stiles grimaced and replied, “Sorry, bad choice of words. _If,”_ he said with extra force, “if something like this happens, you won’t overreact?”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Can you at least try?” Stiles lifted his head and looked at him.

“Whatever,” he answered and turned his head away, eyes focused intently on the wall in front of him, as if it were a beautiful canvas instead of a bare surface –Derek and decoration were not a match made in heaven.

“Not good enough,” Stiles sighed.

Stiles nudged his side repeatedly since Derek didn’t answer. Finally, after more forceful prodding, he heard, “Fine, fine. I’ll try.”

“Thanks.”

Stiles let himself fall on his back, barely bouncing on the mattress –Derek preferred sturdy. He motioned at Derek to come closer.

“Stiles, you’re still healing.”

“The worst is over,” Stiles assured him. “Seriously. I mean, yeah, it still hurts, but I’m not a frigging china doll. I won’t break. I’ll bend,” he promised with a wink.

Derek didn’t react to the innuendo. “You're still healing,” he repeated.

Stiles let out a laugh, “I say crappy argument. Dismissed, buddy.” He smacked his jeans. “Come on.”

Derek seemed to be contemplating what to do, what would be the right thing to do –he was always doing this, Stiles realized: never simply going for what he wanted, always overthinking things. It took too long and Stiles hoisted himself upright carefully, grabbed the front of Derek’s shirt and kissed him. While Derek took his sweet time –in Stiles’ opinion– to relax, Stiles worked on undressing them both, until there was nothing left boxer briefs and hands roaming and hitched breathing.

One of the things Derek was a fan of, was Stiles’ neck. ( _No way in hell_ _this has nothing to do with the werewolf part of your DNA,_ Stiles had once said with a pointed finger. Derek had replied stoically, _Shut up,_ and had continued pressing his tongue and dragging his teeth along Stiles’ throat. _Sucker._ ) Usually, Derek was a little of the rough side, a calculated intensity. Now, not so much. Stiles opened his eyes when he realized Derek was literally draining the pain with his mouth, hesitantly, carefully. “Whoa,” he breathed. “Freaky.”

“Thanks,” Derek deadpanned, gripping Stiles’ left leg and putting it around his waist. Stiles followed with the other, then locked his ankles and pulled downwards suddenly, causing Derek to crush against him. Derek grumbled, “Be careful, for Christ’s sake.”

“Stop worrying so damn much. If I’m in pain, I’ll let you know. Believe me,” Stiles said before getting his fingers stuck in Derek’s hair, pulling down. Soon, Derek finally let go a little –always just a little, so Stiles begged for a little more– and any sense of proper conduct left the bedroom. Open mouthed kissing, strings of saliva, breaths of pleasure, implicit promises of more. Two pairs of boxers were eagerly thrown on the floor –almost _at_ the floor, Stiles would say.

One of the things Stiles was a fan of, was Derek’s strength. Being a werewolf, Derek was strong. Without visible effort, Stiles could be picked up in one swift movement. And granted, Stiles wasn’t the most hefty guy out there, but it wasn’t as if he weighed nothing. He was almost jealous of Derek’s muscles. But those jealous feelings didn’t occupy his mind too often. He enjoyed it very much, being picked up as if it was nothing. It was a damn good feeling, but mostly, a whole lot of fun.

Derek pulled him up, too quickly, and Stiles crashed into him with an _uumpf._

“Grab a condom,” Derek ordered.

Stiles groaned while he flicked Derek’s shoulder, “Why the hell do you _still_ not have any nightstands? It’s not that hard, they’re not that expens-,”

“Stiles,” Derek complained.

“Jesus, fine.” He got off the bed –stumbled– went to take a plastic wrapper from one of the drawers of the wooden desk in the opposite corner of the room. “Really, though, just go out and buy one. It’s just for practicality, it doesn’t even have to be fancy or n-,”

Derek sprang off the bed, grabbed Stiles by the waist and lifted him up effortlessly. See, Derek was well aware of what Stiles liked and disliked. Stiles grinned through their kissing, and Derek walked –stumbled– back to the bed, falling when he bumped against the edge.

Derek exhaled loudly through his nose as Stiles trailed his abdomen and then loudly through his mouth as Stiles put his hand on him and moved up and down, up and down, first slowly then fast. Their eyes were locked together, foreheads touching. _God help me, I’m so in love with him,_ Stiles thought desperately.

Derek heaved a long breath, and paused Stiles. The condom was taken out of the package by Derek –an agreement by now. They had long ago established Stiles was for some reason not capable of ripping the thing open with his teeth. (It frustrated him to no end). Stiles rolled the rubber material on Derek’s penis.

Stiles let his senses take over for a while and closed his eyes and let out a sound he would rather forget –Derek never forgot, and teased Stiles about it mercilessly. Trying his best, he concentrated on the touch of Derek’s hands and it felt as if he were burned, but in the best way possible. His concentration was disrupted by a sudden shift in movement, and now Stiles found himself on his back, legs pulled in the air and Derek right in front of him, eyes alight in bright blue. He put his hands on the mattress to lift his body and shift slightly, finding a more comfortable position.

The two of them were quiet for a couple of seconds, like a calm before a storm, just looking. Stiles swallowed audibly. “Always so serious, D.”

“You’re playful enough for the both of us, _Essie_ ,” Derek replied and flashed his eyes while he used the borrowed term of endearment.

“I’m serious, though,” Stiles said, and then snorted at himself. “I’m serious about not being serious. Seriously.” He put his right hand on Derek’s left arm, pale fingers against tanned fore arm.

“Stiles,” Derek grumbled and dropped his head on Stiles’ torso. He didn’t like having this conversation, Stiles knew. The weight lifted and in the meanwhile Derek’s left hand had drifted off somewhere between Stiles’ legs. Stiles received a questioning look, _permission to continue?_ it said.

Before nodding, Stiles frowned at him –he really, really did wish Derek would loosen up. The creases in his forehead disappeared, because, serious or not, he would take Derek any shape or form. He nodded.

Stiles sucked in a breath as he felt Derek touch him, opening him, once again familiarizing himself with one of the most intimate parts of his body. As usual, it stung at first. Stiles clenched his teeth, breath coming out in quick huffs. The fingers were wet and cold, and somehow Stiles had missed the audible _pop_ from the lube cap. “Oh, I see how it is. You keep the lube hidden here somewhere, but make me walk _all_ the way over to your desk to grab a condom?” Derek didn’t reply but let out a quiet laugh.

“Okay, okay, okay, jesus, _fuck,_ ” he let out when Derek eventually added a finger, bending forward to kiss him messily, too excited to attempt any type of perfection. Derek abandoned Stiles’ mouth and focused all his attention on his fingers. The pain lessened gradually, as it always did, and Derek started moving around inside, as he always did. 

Stiles let his fingers fall out of Derek’s hair –they found themselves tangled there with unfailing regularity– onto the bed with two soft plops. “Whoa,” he said when Derek found a good spot and the other guy laughed, as if to say, _score_. His two arms shot back up, grabbing for something to hold on to. His legs were shaking. Derek just smiled as he pulled away his hand and replaced them with his cock with one slow push. For some reason, Stiles burst out into nervous laughter, giddy at the feeling of being so ridiculously close to someone. He was no prude, but intimacy made him nervous. Their eyes once again connected, Derek staring shamelessly upon him.

Without warning, Derek started to move, once, twice, stilled and was obviously pleased that Stiles gasped and left his mouth wide open. Derek decided to stick his tongue in it. _Locked two times over,_ Stiles noted. He thanked the gods he did yoga, because even for him this position was strenuous. Derek pulled back his mouth and pushed forward his body, this time not stopping.

Stiles started babbling incoherence. It was as if he were trying to hold on to his sanity by speaking, but it wasn’t working out. He abandoned human speech and every breath he let out was a loud one, because Stiles was never quiet. Their bodies moved, at first in synch, then quickly turning into uncontrolled, desperate and sweaty writhing. Derek didn’t seem to mind Stiles’ noises. In fact, he looked pretty goddamn smug. Then his expression changed. And Stiles knew every single face Derek made, so he was pretty sure Derek was close to coming.

“Derek,” he tried to say, but only the first letter came out, the rest was drowned out as Derek pushed forward again, hitting that one particular spot. He let out a short yelp, and Derek looked at him again with a smile on his face. “Nngg, oh, whoa.” Everything felt so incredibly warm, too warm, and sweat was pooling everywhere. He felt as if the warmth was emanating from him. Derek wrapped his hand around Stiles’ cock and started moving just on the side of too rough, but Stiles didn’t care.

Now Derek was trembling and Stiles could tell the guy couldn’t hold much longer. He put his hand on Derek’s, helping him. Werewolf or no, sex was sex. It took about twenty more seconds –glorious, heavy seconds– and Stiles came, for once soundless. Derek let out a loud groan and followed him, dropping his full body weight on Stiles, utterly spent and exhausted. Their lips were dry, and their legs a sticky mess.

Minutes ticked by, during which both were too drained to move or speak. Derek had his eyes closed, face buried in his pillow. Eventually Stiles got up, reluctantly, and came back with a washcloth to clean up the mess. Derek’s eyes stayed closed. He was obviously drifting off to sleep. Sighing, Stiles assembled his clothes from the floor. He bent down and kissed Derek quickly, who by now was asleep. For a couple of seconds, the desire to stay was almost too much and Stiles stood by the bed, torn.

He went home before dark, as per his father’s request.


	18. The Graduation

The bruises took on an array of colours: from blackish to purple and blue, to green and yellow, and then, eventually, they faded. Stiles was happy they weren’t so visible anymore on the day he was supposed to graduate, thinking of the pictures that would be taken. Who wanted to remember being choked? His voice was completely normal again after drinking gallons of tea, though it made him have to pee twenty-four-seven. What was even less pleasant than all the trips to the _whizz palace_ , was the staring. His father refused to let him skip school, and people were intrusive and rude. All the questions he received lacked concern. More prominent was curiosity. In the beginning, the bruises were like a neon sign, _here walks Stiles, the wolf boy who got attacked by a feral omega._ Stiles started losing his patience and flipped off students who kept their eyes on him for too long –Stacey Kingsman, for example. The petite brunette was completely shameless, staring rudely at him for minutes on end during lunch. Her upturned nose was high in the air as she walked away. His exit of Beacon Hills High was less amicable than he’d thought it would be. Plus, his little stunt in the cafeteria got him detention on his second to last day in school. He didn’t go, his little revolutionary act, he called it.

Graduation itself was a boring affair. Though Evan was to thank for a gained confidence, Stiles hadn’t been popular, and the number of people he would miss was small. The night before the ceremony he had gone out with Scott and some other people to some pub in town where they knew they would be able to obtain some alcohol. It was all very secretive and _hush hush_ which made the experience all the more fun. Cora had brought some wolfsbane laced booze –Stiles did not askhow and where she’d got it but doubted she would share the information anyway.

The night ended with a typical scene: asked to leave the bar – _not_ thrown out, Stiles insisted- by an angry bar owner who didn’t want sleeping and slurring teenagers in his humble abode. After the fourth drink, memories became a little fuzzy, but he was pretty sure he remembered Heather singing at top volume, something about someone’s girl. All in all, it was a good night. The morning however, not so much. They’d stayed out too late and he was expected at his friend’s house, Leonard ‘Leo’ Wu, for a brunch type of thing before the ceremony at three.

His father got him out of bed, actually yanking the covers off – _“_ Oh, god, stoooop” – and he found himself bleary eyed at the Wu’s residence around eleven o’clock. Scott didn’t look much better. All the teenagers were sitting in the garden resembling a bunch of potato sacks.

Then came actual graduation: a speech, another speech, _another fucking speech_ (none of which were very interesting, and Stiles used the time to dose off while simultaneously trying to keep his eyes open.), lists of names, two handshakes and finally, a diploma. The Hales were sitting in the crowd somewhere, as well as his father –he peeked over and saw him smiling proudly, at least Stiles did something right now and again- and Rose and Charlie next to him. And then it was over. People whooping and shouting, smiling, crying embarrassedly, clapping, hugging fiercely or timidly. Parents and grandparents were offering flowers to their children, looking at their offspring with a look that said, _Little bird leaving the nest._ Stiles was accosted by a very long embrace from his father, “I’m proud of you, Es.” “Thanks, dad.”

While Stiles left to talk to Joseph and Jenna exchanging stupid high school memories (“Do you remember that time I set that stupid lacrosse shirt on fire? Man I’ll never forget the Coach’s face. How did I even do that?” Or “That time we went to the zoo when we were, like, ten years old?”), the Hales joined his father.

It escaped Stiles’ notice: he was too busy with his friends. They were laughing too much, feeling a little lost as they realized that this was probably the last time they would all be together. Stiles wanted high school to be over, granted, but he would miss the people he had become friends with. They were joined by Heather and Scott, and more excited chatter was added to the conversation. Scott was smiling broadly, curls bouncing around his frame as he jumped up and down slightly. Heather followed his movements and they looked comical.

When the others said goodbye as they went back to their parents, Stiles turned to his best friend and said, “Let’s go say hello to that pack of yours, éh,” imitating a Canadian accent –it wasn’t any good. His father was still standing next to them, face betraying nothing. Laura offered the biggest of smiles and hugs to the two graduates (Cora had already joined her siblings long before, not really having many friends to say goodbye to. She was still somewhat new, after all, and not exactly what one could call ‘approachable’). Derek said congratulations and actually smiled and Stiles felt his eyes on him. Fearing a completely awkward situation in which these six people would just stand around in a circle –they were literally standing in a circle– and say nothing, Stiles brought up a safe topic: holidays.

While Cora explained they were going to visit Nepal, a graduation present for Cora, his father listened politely to their itinerary. It sounded absolutely amazing, and Stiles recognized absolutely none of the things they mentioned: Kathmandu Valley, something about Terai and other places and exotic sounding dishes he didn’t know. Cora was speaking in what Stiles would call an excited manner, to a mere bystander probably sounding composed and calm. Stiles and Scott had been invited to go along, but there were two reasons the offer was refused: one, it was expensive as hell –and _no,_ he didn’t want to accept their money like that. Two, he and Scott had already planned their trip along the west coast ages ago: sleeping in the cheapest motels and living off junk food, probably. Stiles was happy with his own graduation present, which was money for the road trip. Reason number three (not explicitly said), the situation was delicate. The situation had been delicate before, avoiding stepping on mines as he twisted around the truth of his relationship with the Hales. And now, with the bruising incident, it wasn’t any better.

Stiles was happy to see his father not close-lipped, but actually join the conversation. They drifted from the topic of summer plans and continued with something Stiles had absolutely no interest in: jobs. Derek and Laura spoke of their job hunt. Laura had a little more success, signing up with a programme of the rights of werewolves and humans alike in the city of Beacon Hills. Her brother had less success –Derek had told Stiles he had zero interest in playing the Good Samaritan slash werewolf like his sister. The Sheriff admitted times were hard to find a job, to which Derek replied with a grunt. “He’s quite good with his hands,” Laura threw in –sneaky look- and told the Sheriff she had often suggested he start his own workshop. As far as Stiles knew, he had never seen anything built by Derek’s hands, but it was an image that suited him: it didn’t involve any forced social contact. He could be as grumpy and asocial as he wanted.

Melissa joined the group, previously engaged in a conversation with a fellow mother. “Gosh, that woman really knows how to drag out a conversation,” she laughed. She smiled at the boys and Cora, heartfelt congratulations all around. The dress she wore, burgundy red, suited her beautifully. Her hair was pinned up, a few rebellious curls escaping the do.

Eventually his father and Melissa left he group again, making their way to one of his father’s colleagues, the tall lady with her permanently inflamed cheeks, Nadine Longvoyer. Her daughter was on the badminton team, a girl of whom Stiles only knew she had an obsession with cranberry juice. She seemed to be carrying a carton of the stuff everywhere she went, like a little kid and their security blanket.  

The rest of the Hale pack continued talking, more at ease. Stiles slipped next to Derek and he received a quick kiss, so quick it might have not happened at all –shouldn’t have, when his father was near. It was hot outside, the entire mass of graduates and family squished against one another, continuously pushing someone aside gently with a _sorry, excuse me_. Stiles and Derek got some ice-cold water from a long table that was located away from the crowd. Coach Finstock stopped them there and trapped the couple in a conversation about life, Stiles nodding and trying to find ways to escape the scrutiny of the man’s intense eyes. Those eyes flickered over to Derek with an inquisitive look. “Derek Hale,” he had introduced himself, and that was enough: a look of recognition followed in Coach’s eyes at the name. He said nothing more than, “Well, _Bilinski_ ,” and then continued to sound like a guru as he passionately gestured and said something about grabbing life by the balls. Stiles dragged Derek away as soon as there was a lull in the mostly one-sided conversation.

 

+

 

He was tapped on the shoulder. The face belonging to the fingers was Evan’s. His hair was tied back in a big bun, messy and uncombed. _Can you comb rasta hair?_ Stiles wondered. _Probably not._ Rose and Charlie were standing about twenty feet away, barely visible in the mass of heads and graduation caps. His father was talking to Charlie. Evan smiled broadly at him and Stiles held up one finger, “two seconds.”

He turned back around and told the others he’d be back. Their eyes flickered over to Evan in interest. Stiles was pleased to see no jealousy in Derek’s eyes. The two of them walked to their family where Rose attacked him by jumping in his arms, yelling out a whoop. Her bright orange dress stood out against the subdued tones of all the graduation robes, greys and blues. He stumbled back a few steps, but thankfully didn’t fall on his ass, as would’ve been very likely. The thought made him think of his birthday party. The others laughed. God, the Tenners looked so much alike. It was impossible not to see they were family. Charlie was dressed in black, _of course_ , but the usual laid back ensemble had been switched to something elegant: a black pantsuit, the v neck shape drawing attention to the same blue pendant she’d been wearing the first time he’d come to Peanuts all those months ago. Her curly hair was tied back. Stiles saw his father smiling, a proud man.

Charlie kissed him on the cheeks, and then hugged him tightly. Next to him, Evan was taking pictures. Stiles posed together with his dad and then asked if someone could take one of him and Evan. It wasn’t awkward at all, Stiles still couldn’t get over how zen the guy was. “Say hell, yeah on three,” he exclaimed.

They shouted in unison, faces contorted into a mask of _hell, yeah school is over_.

After a new round of congratulations and excited chatter during which Stiles realized how long it’d been since they were all together, Evan pulled him aside slightly and asked if they could talk for a second. “Yeah, sure thing, man,” they walked out of the mass. It was warm and stuffy, the sun high in the sky. Stiles was sweating, his heart hammering a bit too fast. Next to a tree they stood in the shade. It hadn’t rained in quite a while and the grass was starting to turn yellow.

“I’m sorry, you look so ridiculous in that thing,” Stiles laughed and gestured to Evan’s robe and added, “So very uncharacteristic.”

“I know, I’m itching to take it off. I can’t believe I got to graduation.”

“Honestly, neither can I.” He walked a few steps ahead. “I thought you were so ‘fuck the system’ the system would end up fucking you, not in a good way.” He pulled a face.

Evan huffed. “What is the good way of the system fucking me over?” Stiles shrugged his shoulders and grinned, “Whatever, man.”

“Yeah.” The guy shook his head. “I’m just glad I’m finally done with this.”

Stiles could feel it, the immense relief flooding through Evan. It felt good, free.

Stiles had to get it out. “Evan, I’m really sorry. This last year has been, unexpected, and kind of, crappy at times. I didn’t mean for all of us to … drift away like that.”

The mood dampened. Evan frowned, but said “Me too. But it happened.”

Stiles could see Evan didn’t want to talk about it. He asked, instead, “Where are you off to, next year?”

“South America.”

“ _South America?_ What are you doing _there_?” It came out a little unsupportive, he belatedly realised. “Sorry, I mean, I’m totally supportive. What are your plans in South America?”

“Help build homes in a community project. I’ve done it before, and I really liked it. We’ll see from there.”

“ _Wow_. Damn, that’s noble. It really suits you,” he nodded.

Evan murmured thanks. “I heard you’re staying in the city?”

“Yep.”

Wanting to do something to fill the silence, Stiles sat down on the yellow grass patch. Evan followed suit and wiped sweat off his brow, “It’s so warm.”

Stiles told him to take off the robe, and Evan took his advice. It didn’t suit him anyways, he agreed.

“Any plans tonight?” Evan had now discarded the offensive cloth. It lay as an ugly heap on the ground before them. He sighed, “Much better.”

Stiles hesitated before answering, which didn’t escape the other’s notice. “Yeah, the Hales,” Stiles saw Evan’s eyes flicker to the mostly faded bruises. “They, uh, are throwing this thing for Scott, they invited us too.” He’d considered asking Laura if the Tenner’s could come, but in the end decided against it. Too much drama.

Evan smiled his beautiful smile, Stiles was surprised he still got that genuine smile from him. But that was what made Evan so different. He wasn’t spiteful or ambiguous about anything. Stiles missed that. He was going to miss him, he realized with a pang. “I’m going to miss you.”

The smile stayed. “Me too, Es.” Evan looked up to where his mother and sister were standing just outside the mass. After a few minutes of silence –not uncomfortable- Evan said, “We should get back.”

“One second,” Stiles started, “I wanted to tell you, well I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time, but I’m just kind of an asshole. But, anyways, I wanted to tell you …,” he took a breath, and continued in a serious tone, “thank you. You were right, you know, I was stupidly insecure, before. And you helped me … get over that. I won’t forget it. Thanks.” He was trying to look Evan in the eye, but couldn’t. The guy had always been much better at being honest and open than Stiles. Evan remained quiet. Stiles blocked out any feelings coming from him, wanting to give him the privacy he deserved. 

They got up, and before Stiles could do anything, Evan kissed him, a bit lazily but sweetly on the mouth. “One last time, right?” It wasn’t like Evan knew he had a thing with Derek, but that wasn’t important right now. He wanted to end things right. So he smiled and nodded, and gave him a bear hug. As he pulled back, Evan looked at his neck again. “Stiles, watch the _fuck_ out, please.” The uncharacteristic cuss word sounded harsh as well as desperate. Stiles nodded again, now holding his friend’s eyes. He hoped Derek hadn’t listened to any of this, or had seen them.

Evan started to walk back, bending down to grab the grey robe. Stiles noticed Evan had a tattoo on his forearm, five birds in the shape of a V, flapping wings open and close. “Wow,” he walked forward and pointed to Evan’s arm, “That’s amazing.”

Evan smiled a half smile that revealed he was still thinking about the bruises. “Thanks.”

“What’d Charlie say?”

“She said she wasn’t surprised.” They walked onwards. “But that was after the yelling.”

Stiles snorted.

Right before they reached Charlie and Rose, Stiles suddenly remembered Evan had pulled him aside for something. “Wait, didn’t you want to ask me something?”

Evan looked confused, and then “Oh, no, just to say so long.” Evan just smiled again, squinting his eyes against the bright sun, and walked on.

Stiles followed him, said bye to all three of them, and returned with his father to the Hales and the McCalls. He felt only a little sad but ignored it, as he kept his mouth running and his hands busy fidgeting. If he felt his father’s eyes on him, occasionally focusing on the lines appearing and disappearing on his arms, he ignored that, too. And if he stuffed his face with all the glorious food laid out on the table in the Hales’ apartment while his father _still, still, still_ continued to give off waves of nervousness, he ignored that, too. And if later at night he sought distraction in the form of Derek Hale’s lips and felt guilt at using him, he ignored that, too.


	19. The Lovers

One eye opened as Derek spoke.

“Are you sore?”

“Yes. _Every_ where.”

A smile. “Sorry.”

“Cocky bastard.” He turned around and slept on.

Later, Stiles accompanied the Hales to say goodbye at the airport, ready to leave for Nepal. Derek yawned and didn’t look quite as awake as usual, and Stiles was feeling pretty good about himself; it wasn’t every day you could tire out a werewolf. He said so, but Derek pointed under Stiles’ eyes –dark circles visible proof he wasn’t much better off. “Whatever,” was the only response he could come up with. Scott looked uncomfortable. “I don’t want to know these things,” he said, covering his ears. An hour later the plane was off.

 

+

 

Halfway through August, when Scott and he returned from three weeks on the road, it was obvious Derek had missed him. An enormous dinner welcomed them home. “Thank the heavens,” Stiles proclaimed theatrically, hands waving at the sky, “ _healthy food_ , I never thought I’d miss you.” From the kitchen, Cora shouted, “Dig in,” but looking sideways he saw Scott hadn’t been able to wait. “Wolf it down, Scotty.” The guy looked up and said with a stuffed mouth, “Forty three,” high five. (Recycled puns were included in the list). Stiles didn’t have time to finish his desert before Derek dragged him upstairs. He actually spoke the words, how much he’d missed Stiles, and Stiles admitted it back. He felt vulnerable, still unused to sharing this with another person. 

 

+

 

 

Classes had started and Stiles enjoyed it immensely; the freedom of not being _forced_ to go, taking subjects that actually interested him. He’d thought of staying in the dorms on campus, but it was an extra cost he couldn’t afford. Instead, he kept on living at home. And if his dad noticed he spent many nights elsewhere, Stiles couldn’t come up with a better excuse then, “I’m seeing someone, but he’s kinda private, and I’m not sure it’s serious and … yeah.”It was a mixture of truth and lies. His father didn’t like it, but left it alone. “Just be-,” “ _Yes, yes,_ I know, I’ll be safe. Protection all around.”

 

+

 

Derek

 

“Jesus, Stiles, can’t you _ever_ be silent? My sisters are downstairs, verging on scarred for life,” Derek complained while pinning Stiles down to keep him still. 

It was around eleven in the evening. Outside, the sky was pitch black, the only light a neon white waning moon. Stiles wriggled out from underneath him, took the glass of water on the bedside table – _finally_ purchased – and took a noisy gulp. Blue sheets were crumpled at the foot of the bed, kicked downwards in a frenzy to let some cool air touch their bodies. The room was too hot. Stiles put the glass down, pushed Derek so that he was on his back and then climbed on top of him, like a monkey. Stiles liked doing that, Derek had noticed.

“No,” Stiles said in answer to Derek’s question. Being graceful wasn’t Stiles’ forte –“What are you talking about, I’m a fucking gazelle,” - and his movements were uncontrolled as he obviously tried to contain his laughter. He was being obnoxiously loud now, on purpose. Derek rolled his eyes when Stiles grinned and said, “Sorry, I’m afraid that is just not possible. I just cannot be quiet.” Then he hollered, “HEY, DOWN THERE, I’M HAVING SEX WITH YOUR BROTHER, DEAL WITH IT.” Derek winced at the volume while Stiles laughed loudly again. Derek muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

But Derek knew one way to get Stiles quiet: get him off. After, Stiles usually looked punch drunk, a glazed look in his eyes. His crazy heartbeat would even out and continue in a slow, steady rhythm that Derek had come to realize was only ever that slow and steady when they were lying tangled around each other in a post-orgasmic daze.

 

 

+

Stiles

 

“Your stomach is growling,” Derek accused.

“No shit, Sherlock. Have you seen the contents of your fridge? It’s absolutely pathetic. I mean, I know you guys are freaking carnivorous wolves and all, but would it kill you to have _some_ substantial food stashed away in case your guest, a.k.a. me, gets hungry? And I’m always hungry. You eat a ridiculous amount of food. Seriously, why don’t you have any food here, ever?”

Derek’s face was completely still. “Because you eat it all.”

“Whatever, I am getting some food.” The keys to the Camaro were lying on the coffee table, Stiles grabbed them and walked to the door, knowing Derek would follow eventually, because nobody was allowed to drive the Camaro, ever, _or I’ll rip your throat out, with my teeth._ Stiles had laughed squarely in his face.

 

+

 

Sleeping next to Derek was a pain. Usually, Stiles had found out, being around sleeping people had a somewhat calming effect if he let other people’s senses mingle with his own. However, that was only the case if sleep was peaceful. This was not the case with Derek, whose sleep was often fitful and restless. 

Falling asleep was not a problem. Staying asleep just didn’t work. Stiles would wake up in the morning with circles under his eyes, and a questioning look from the guy next to him. He shrugged it off. Whatever was causing these nightmares –Stiles assumed they were nightmares – Derek wouldn’t say. Stiles didn’t keep pushing because it was of no use to talk to a brick wall. Instead, he opted to go back home to his own bedif he couldn’t fall back asleep. Derek didn’t like it. So, they were at an impasse: Derek wouldn’t talk, but Stiles couldn’t stay. It was draining. Plus, his father made it known he didn’t really approve of a boyfriend who would make Stiles come home repeatedly at three a.m. “It’s not like that,” Stiles explained. The explanation was not satisfactory.

 

+

Rose

 

My favorite thing about our house was that we had a courtyard. It wasn’t part of the bar, seeing as it was too small to sit many tables and chairs. One other house shared the small space. Sometimes our neighbor, an overweight man named Theo, would sit outside and read while smoking his cigar, the smell of tobacco lingering in the air for hours. The yard held one small table, two wobbly chairs and a hammock held up by two metallic poles. Spanish tiles were dirtied by moss; sunlight was hardly ever able to reach the small space. It was quiet and cool.

I was swaying in the hammock. I peeked my head over the cloth, looking at Stiles who was sitting on one of the wobbly chairs reading the book on empaths again. I didn’t really understand why. The small book offered little information, not much more than I’d learned from mom. I actually thought the old thing was kind of useless, but Stiles kept returning back to it, as if he hoped one day extra pages would show up with more information explaining our existence. It didn’t happen.

It was a while now I hadn’t seen Stiles. He didn’t deny he hung out with the Hale pack when I asked him, though he shut up about it if mom was near. Naturally, I guessed his father didn’t really know about it.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Stiles,” I said.

“I’m not playing.” He grabbed his coke from the table and slurped loudly.

The door to the house was open and I could hear mom moving around inside. I wondered if he hung out with them to test his powers, though I doubted it. “If this is you trying to see just how far you can take it, without them _noticing_ anything diff-,”

“It’s not,” the words were angry and defensive, but regardless of that I hoped they were true. “It’s not, I swear. I don’t do that, Rosie. Ever. I don’t try to manipulate them. Unlike what you’re thinking, I’m not trying to purposefully screw everyone over.” He seemed to realize his words were harsh, and ground out an angry apology. “Sorry.”

“I’m just worried, you know. Be careful.”

“I am.”

 

I watched him for a while as he clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to offer anything more. Putting a hand to the floor and giving a solid push, I continued swaying.

 

+

Stiles

 

Being an empath sure had its advantages from time to time. One of Stiles’ new favorite things to do was taking showers –and, okay, Stiles realized that sounded sort of weird, but it was true: showers were a godsend, especially when he took them at the Hales’. Now, he didn’t see this as using his supernatural friends, he saw it as basking in their essence, enjoying their presence. The water wasn’t just warm, it was hot. It didn’t just fall on him, it enwrapped him. The sound of clattering water didn’t just soothe him, it blocked out all other noise. And when there was another body in there with him, well, then it was just heaven.

“Stiles! Hurry the fuck up,” Derek shouted from outside.

Opening his eyes –he’d been snoozing against dark blue-green tiles –, he wondered how long he’d been in there this time.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. Stiles turned around and put his head under the stream, taking in the heat. He sighed and stretched and forgot he was supposed to hurry up. Again.

“STILES,” Derek boomed. _God, he can be loud. Or maybe that’s just me._

“Derek,” Stiles shot back, but heat lacked behind the word and it sounded more like an abandoned whisper.

“Get out of the shower. You’ll be late for class, idiot.” If Stiles concentrated on sound –he was certainly calm enough, water draining all the tension from his muscles- he could hear Derek shuffling around in the bedroom.

“Coming, coming, calm your horses, jesus.” _One more minute, maybe two._ Stiles was muttering along to a song that was stuck in his head and enjoyed his last minutes under the stream. His mind drifted to yesterday, a careless day of missed lectures and work pushed aside. Instead he’d spent the day here.

Two hands grabbed hold of his waist and before Stiles even realized what was going on, he was yanked out of the shower. “Hey!” he protested. “Not cool! I was almost done.”

“Yeah, sure, you said the same thing almost twenty minutes ago.” Derek flung a towel at him after turning of the water. Stiles did not catch it –it hit him in the face instead- and started drying himself. Derek had gone from sleepy bed-head with squinty eyes to looking wholly decent and ready for the day. “Oops,” Stiles mumbled. _Twenty minutes? Shit, man._ “Well, in my defense, you have excellent water pressure. Excellent. It excels at its level of pressure.”

“Just get dressed, Stiles,” Derek replied with annoyance.

“Jeez, who bit you in the ass?” Stiles pulled on his boxers and jeans and started brushing his teeth. Derek stood behind him, assessing the situation, apparently. Stiles was staring back at him, “What?” he asked after spitting. “Wolf got your tongue?”

“Hilarious.”

“Always,” he promised.

Derek ignored Stiles’ grin and said, “Hurry up, you’ll be late.”

“Nerd.” Stiles rinsed his mouth and pulled on a shirt and the thickest sweater he owned. “Mmmbleh, okay, ready to face the cold. Let’s go,” he said in a resigned tone.

Derek grabbed him and started kissing him sloppily. Stiles wasn’t surprised. It had been brewing in the air. “What a hypocrite!” he shouted while he tried to run away. He was never fast enough.

 

+

 

 

“Why can’t you just tell him?” Derek wouldn’t let it go. He hated secrets.

“This is between me and my father, and I will tell him I’m with you when _I_ want to,” Stiles snapped. It was tiresome to have this conversation over and over again.

“Stiles, I am not a fucking teenager, okay? This sneaking around is like a high school melodrama. I don’t want to keep doing this. Why won’t you tell him?”

They were alone in the apartment and Stiles groaned in frustration and got up from where he was sitting across from Derek at the table. Their food was getting cold. “I told you, it’s _my_ father, it’s _my_ business, stay out of it.”

“Stay out of it?” He was yelling at this point. “Stiles, I am _in it._ Stop acting like a child.”

“Stop telling me I’m acting like a kid.”

“You _are_ acting like one.”

“I’m not!” The frown on Stiles’ face matched Derek’s. “Just because I choose to not tell my father I am dating Derek Hale, doesn’t mean I’m acting like a kid.”

“I still don’t understand why. You literally won’t give me an actual reason,” he was looking straight at Stiles, who avoided his eyes.

Stiles didn’t want to tell his father, because things were better with his dad right now. True, they weren’t perfect, but they were starting to get better. But if he found about Derek? He would forbid the relationship, of course. Stiles wouldn’t listen to him, of course. That wasn’t really the problem. The problem was, he’d hurt his father. All the deals they’d made, _stay away from werewolves as much as you can_ and such, would be thrown back at his young face. Derek was a good guy, but that wasn’t really the impression he gave off. Stiles was well aware of this. He was tempted, oh so tempted, to tell Derek. Hundreds of times, he was on the verge of opening his mouth and revealing the entire truth, but something held him back.

“Butt out, Derek,” he said and added a pointed please.

Derek was still seated at the table, arms crossed, and he sighed angrily. “No.”

“ _Yes_. Butt. Out,” he articulated every word clearly.

“No.”

“Well, who’s behaving like a child now?” Unfortunately, the whiny tone he’d used made him think it was himself who was behaving petulantly. Derek got up and turned around the table. He was standing a little too close for Stiles’ comfort. “Tell me why.”

“Stop commanding me around. You’re not an Alpha, and I’m certainly not your Beta,” Stiles didn’t back off, even though Derek’s face was mere inches away, imposing stance. Both held their ground. The silence lasted for a while. Outside, the rain was coming down harshly against the windows. Stiles didn’t like winter.

Stiles tried to think of something. “He wouldn’t approve.”

“Of what?” Derek asked without pause.

“You’re too old.” Stiles saw Derek’s face crumple. “I mean, I don’t think you are, but he will.” Not true in the slightest. He added, “That’s why I don’t want to tell him.”

“That’s a shit reason, Stiles.” He didn’t look mollified at all, which had been Stiles’ aim; to get him of his back. “And, you’re kind of half lying. So you’re still not telling me the truth,” Derek said angrily.

“Damn it, Derek! How many fucking times do I have to say this? Don’t listen to my heartbeat for lying. I hate it.” He was still too close, Stiles could count the number of breaths leaving his mouth.

“Why? Is it so impossible for you to have an honest conversation with me?” Derek was yelling again.

“If I want to lie, I will damn well _lie_.” He didn’t want to lie.

“Well, I’ve had enough of your lying. Bye.” Derek turned around and stormed off. Stiles ignored the flashing of Derek’s irises. He’d angered him more than usual this time. He was left in the quiet, empty apartment.

It wasn’t the first time they had this argument, nor the last. It always went the same way, Stiles defensive and Derek angry and pushing. Usually, it ended the same way too. Derek would storm off after Stiles wouldn’t budge. They didn’t talk to each other for a day or two, but seemed to drift back together one way or the other.

 

 

+

 

Derek was tracing patterns across his skin, very slowly. It seemed as if he was asleep, eyes shut and breathing evenly. Stiles watched, fascinated and slightly alarmed, as the ink on his skin chased the fingertips. This was new. It was like a game of cat and mouse and it had him gaping. As an index finger made a straight line across his skin, a black line followed it, slalom –it might have been a snake, an eel or some other oblong animal. Stiles was sat slumped against the bed, Derek sprawled next to him, dead to the world save for his moving hand. His face started to burn and his heart rate picked up. But it was nothing he was willing to explore nor explain, so when Derek opened his eyes and looked at him questioningly, Stiles told him to go back to sleep.

 

 

+

 

Some days, Stiles felt stuck. There was not one person he was one hundred percent honest with. In the back of his mind, he knew. He knew it wouldn’t be able to go on this way. Someone would find out something. Betrayal is a strong word, but Stiles knew all parties would consider it as such. Hadn’t he promised his father to stay as safe as he could? Hadn’t he, honest to god, _promised_ , not to have to do more with the Hales than necessary? Wasn’t he in a relationship with someone who had slowly started to trust him with personal details of his life? Didn’t he owe Derek the same courtesy?

Talking to his mother’s imaginary gravestone wasn’t enough. More and more often, he came to the graveyard to let his mind speak freely, for once mindless of the consequences. People knew where he went, and they left him alone as he requested. Besides, he knew he wasn’t being listened to by werewolves, the feeling of that particular presence already deeply familiar. He missed the comfort of a mother. Charlie was there, would be there if he needed her, but it wasn’t the same. When Claudia had died, he had been barely old enough to be able to remember her well. But even though no clear memory surfaced when thinking of her, muddled ones were enough to hurt. It wasn’t an image, it was a feeling, and it hurt. 

So, his mother knew. Stiles didn’t believe in angels, or heaven or hell, but for an hour every few weeks, he pretended she was still alive. No one answered, smiled lovingly or listened attentively, but he pretended someone did. Nothing measures the comfort of your parents, he thought sadly. He was envious, jealous, of children his age who had both their parents, alive and well.

At least once a month, he entertained the thought of coming clean with everybody, in one smooth sweep. Just lay it all out, damn the consequences. But then his father’s voice entered his mind, all the warnings and pleas to be heedful of werewolves. How in the world did he end up with one as his best friend, and with another in bed? He felt anger and ended up snapping at everyone, angry at them instead of himself. Then the emotion turned into guilt. The mischief at school had been one thing, but this, this was different. In the end he kept his mouth shut, a difficult thing to do. He loved his father.

Stiles was convinced the Hales posed no threat. His father didn’t agree, neither did the Tenners. Mention of his bruised neck kept coming back, as if he were holding on to an elastic band and the worried ones holding on to the other end snapped the band back whenever they felt like it. No amount of reasoning changed their opinions, which made Stiles absolutely furious. Stiles was stuck. But he was also an avid believer in ignoring a problem until it goes away, so most of the time, _most of the time_ , he did. But the problem never went away.

 

+

Derek

 

In the end, he followed his sister’s advice: he started working with his hands. Finding a place to do it was hard, but not impossible. He had the advantage that bad isolation didn’t pose as much of a problem to a werewolf and he found an empty space for a low price somewhere in the outskirts of Beacon Hills. There was something cathartic about being busy with your hands all the time, cutting, carving, sawing, polishing. It didn’t necessitate big words or fake, friendly smiles, and it put him at ease. The first months he was busy were disastrous. He kept cursing at the wood and would occasionally cut himself by accident. The wounds healed before he went home, but Laura’s face was worried when she saw faint pink scars.

Starting his own business, however small, was difficult. He knew nothing of it, _a newbie_ , Stiles called him. However, he did know someone in New York who’d owned his own business, and they kept contact. Derek realized he barely had contact with anyone in New York and found he didn’t miss the city.

Things were going good. Not perfect, but good. Stiles was a talker, always talking, talking, talking, and it was inevitable: Derek was talking back. He found himself revealing things he hadn’t meant to, only to realize it wasn’t so bad.

At night, he was aware Stiles sometimes left. When he asked after it, Stiles said he couldn’t sleep because Derek was so restless in his sleep. The first few times, Stiles said it simply and forgivingly. Then, he turned angry, half-stomping out. Derek didn’t enjoy it, he liked having Stiles in his bed. Realizing he needed to talk to solve this, he finally came clean: the explained what had happened to their old home in a distant monologue, stating facts instead of feelings. There was a woman, Kate. She’d seduced him when he was sixteen. She was a hunter, a rogue one. She used him. She burned down their house. His family was dead. He couldn’t sleep.

Derek wasn’t fooled: the nightmares wouldn’t simply go away, but it felt like a relief talking to Stiles about it. He had looked absolutely horrified during the talk, occasionally muttering a _shit, fuck, Jesus Christ._ It was a thing they had in common, swearing too often and making others uncomfortable. Derek liked it.

The nightmares didn’t go away, and Stiles still left sometimes, but slowly it got better. It was unfamiliar territory, being happy, and a feeling he’d sort of forgotten.

 

+

Stiles

 

Laura handed him a muffin with a candle on top of it. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but what’s this for?” Stiles asked. It was a cold day in January and Laura had popped by the campus to join him for lunch. They entered the students’ canteen and Laura unwrapped her gigantic knitted scarf and winter coat –“Werewolf or not, it’s still cold”- before they sat down and she took the pastry out of a plastic bag and put a candle on it. Despite there being a no-fire-rule, she lit it. They were sitting at the back of the canteen hall, hidden away.

“It’s a congratulations,” she looked at him as if he had hit his head against a wall.

Stiles’ mind was a blank, “For what?” The midterm exams were over and done with and they’d already celebrated his outstanding results. Laura smiled and said with a smirk, “I figured it’s around this time a year ago you and my baby brother started going out.”

Stiles exploded into a loud _“What?”_ A couple of tables over, a guy with horned glasses and spiky brown hair looked up, startled. “I… wow, I hadn’t even realized.”

Laura snorted, “He probably hasn’t, either. Just figured it was cause for celebration. You’re good for him,” she declared. “Honest, challenging, you don’t let him get away with shit.” He pretended he hadn’t heard that one word, blew out the candle and wrapped the muffin in a napkin.

At the apartment he waited for Derek to come home from his job –he would smell like sawdust- while he worked on a paper for school. Their place had started to resemble an actual home over the last few months, slowly showing signs of actual life (a photograph here, a mirror there, books piling under the coffee table, an abandoned Sudoku on the kitchen counter, dirty laundry in the bathroom, a sweater flung distractedly on one of the couches). It was a long way from the bare minimalist setting it had had at first.

Derek didn’t seem any different when he came home and Stiles grinned when he realized Laura had been right: Derek hadn’t realized it either. Half of the muffin he gave to him, a little stale by now. He continued to work on his paper, smiling and thoughts eventually drifting.

An entire year. During that year, a familiarity had grown. Growing close to someone like Derek Hale was no easy thing. Their innocent flirting stage had lasted for weeks, their superficial dating for months –they had both treated it as something light-, and their actual relationship had really only started after … well, he couldn’t put a time on it, but what he knew was that somewhere along the line it had unintentionally grown serious. The thought was both comforting and scary. Stiles had enough serious business in his life, and adding one more layer of it in the form/shape of love just meant he had more to lose.

 

+

 

Stiles had been too distracted by Derek’s hands on him, he hadn’t notice his father’s eyes were on them, angry. Cursing, Stiles told Derek to go home. He did the same thing, sitting next to his father in the cruiser.

“Stiles, are you crazy? Have you gone out of your mind? I can’t believe you kept this from me when I-”

“Dad! Stop, please. He’s not dangerous-,”

“Not dangerous?” his dad spluttered, “He has claws, and fangs, and he’s strong, much stronger than we are. We can’t protect ourselves.”

“Why is this any different than Scott?” Stiles looked at his father desperately, but the man kept his eyes on the road.

“Because it is. I allowed you to see Scott, because he’s your best friend, and he’s a good kid.”

“Okay, one, allowed? I’m not a child anymore, I can see and be with whoever I want. Two, how do you know Derek isn’t good, either? You don’t even know him.”

“Are you sure that you do?” his dad asked, forcefully.

“Yes!” Stiles yelled. “Sorry.” He repeated the answer at a more normal volume. “Yes, I do. I do know him. He’s not going to hurt me.”

“I assume this is the guy you spent all those nights with?” Stiles answered in the affirmative. They had arrived home and the Sheriff sat down at the kitchen table, put his hands over his face.

Stiles heard a muffled “Have you told him?” When Stiles took too long to answer, the Sheriff took his hands off his face and looked at him, waiting, scared and looking ready to shout again.

“No, Dad, I haven’t.” Stiles fumbled with the hem of his shirt. “But I want to. He won’t care. He won’t hurt me.”

“Then what’s stopping you? If you trust this man, so completely, with your life?” It didn’t sound mocking, it sounded honest and concerned.

“Because, …,” Stiles shrugged while shaking his head, “because I made a promise, didn’t I?”

“You respect that one, but not the others? I don’t understand, kid.”

Stiles didn’t know how to answer to that. “Me either. God, I don’t know. I trust him, I do, but, what do you do when two people you, …, you care about, when they,” he bumped his knuckles against one another to get his point across. He continued, “He deserves to know. But you’re my dad, and … I…” He left it hanging in the air, hoping his dad would understand.

The next thing that happened surprised him: his dad hugged him. “I’m not okay with this, Essie,” he pushed.

Stiles felt as if he were being strangled. “And I knew you wouldn’t be.” He heard his father sigh. “I understand you can’t be. With … mom, and what happened.”

After a while, Stiles asked, “So, what now, pops?” They disentangled.

“I don’t know,” his father huffed. “I don’t know. Be careful? Stay careful?” A deep frown stayed in place. They stood opposite each other now, stiff and awkward.

Stiles thought for a moment. “I am careful. I will stay careful. I promise. I never forget, what we are, what he his, what could happen.” Lie. He did forget, too often, when he lay in Derek’s bed or when they were doing something as mundane as watching a movie. He forgot. He berated himself for it, afterwards, but also had to admit it felt nice, no, amazing, to just forget for a while. Releasing that tidbit of information wouldn’t do anyone any good right now.

Stiles was a little dumbfounded, though. He was surprised at his father’s easy acceptance of it all. Shouting with bugged out eyes, grounding, threats, that’s what he’d been expecting. But not this. His father almost seemed drained, beaten down, too tired to fight. It was a saddening sight. For the first time the repercussions of being a liar punched him in the gut, and he felt even worse than he had before.

 

 

+

Derek

 

Derek had been confused by the Sheriff’s angry face. He knew Stiles didn’t want to tell his father, but the exact reason was still unknown to him. The anxiety and anger the man had given off was strong, and it threw him off. Anger, sure, but anxiety? Did it have anything to do with the fact he was a werewolf? As far as he knew, the Sheriff had never had a particular problem with werewolves. When they’d first arrived, they’d been treated politely. True, Stiles’ dad had showed no particular kindness towards them, but he hadn’t been unfriendly either. Derek might’ve been wrong to think John was different than most people he met.

Derek couldn’t deny knowing the Sheriff would see them. Stiles wasn’t much for PDA,or so he told Derek. In fact, Stiles didn’t really seem to have that much of a problem with it when it actually happened, but he kept saying he did. Another reason Stiles was still sometimes ‘that weird guy’in his mind.

They’d been walking outdoors on their way to some movie Stiles wanted to see. Derek had made an attempt at some lame joke when suddenly Stiles had turned sideways and just started kissing him, earning them some annoyed glares from bystanders whose way they blocked. And Derek had known. He’d heard that heartbeat, the one that kind of resembled Stiles’, and could therefore only be his father’s. But Derek hadn’t stopped Stiles, like he knew he should have.

He was at the apartment now, waiting for Stiles and nervous as fuck. Some weeks before, he’d given Stiles a key to it and wondered it he was going to get it thrown at him now. He expected anger, fury and wasn’t disappointed. Anger there was, yells and insults, but in the end the key remained in Stiles’ possession.


	20. The Article

_Saturday, March 15, 2014_

_WOMAN SHOCKS WORLD: ANOTHER SUPERNATURAL BEING IN OUR SOCIETY?_

_After the public debate on euthanasia in Toronto Friday 14 March, one of the main political figures active during the debate, Andrea Wilkinson, created quite the commotion as she changed appearance into something we have yet to identify. The woman in question, beforehand “completely calm and collected”, as states one of her colleagues, Nathan Jenner, altered in appearance –see the picture below- and created quite the shock. Jenner says Wilkinson grew aggressive and violent as the people “screamed in terror.” Multiple eyewitnesses confirm having seen Wilkinson attacking another co-worker, the forty-two-year old Thomas Herera, currently recovering from his injuries. The attack was sudden and Herera suffered various blows before anyone was able to intervene. According to most of their other co-workers, Herera and Wilkinson did not have an amicable relationship, but this was the first time violence was involved. Wilkinson is currently-_

Stiles stopped reading as Jarvis, the grumpy old man who owned the kiosk outside the university building, harrumphed loudly and rubbed his index finger against his thumb, pay up, pal. Surely he hadn’t been standing with the paper in his hands that long? The headline had caught his attention, eyes bugged he’d grabbed the newspaper, staring in shock at the picture of the woman in which he recognized traces of himself. He’d been brought back to the time he’d toyed around with the gold and had stared in horror and awe at his own reflection in the mirror –which still hadn’t been replaced after he’d smashed it. Returning back to the present, he’d started reading frantically.

Clumsily he opened his bag and got a couple of dollars out of his wallet. Jarvis seemed pleased and returned to sit on the chair inside the cubicle. Instead of going inside the main building for his next class, for which he was already ten minutes late, he turned around and half ran to the nearby bus stop. Of course _today_ had to be the day his Jeep was in the shop. 

The inside of his mind was chaos: a lot of swearing and helplessly asking what, why, how… The next bus that would get him home would arrive in fifteen minutes. He was the only one waiting for the bus. As he continued reading, too quickly, too agitatedly, he got an idea of what had happened: somehow the woman must’ve got some gold in her system, and she’d attacked someone else – the man was in the hospital suffering from an internal injury. According to the journalist, she was being held at the police station in Vermont.

In other words, the damage was done. Stiles let out a loud _fuck_ , closed the paper, opened it again, read the article again and put the thing in his bag. _Crap. Crap. Christ!_ Why did cameras have to exist? Some genius had started taking pictures and had made a video of the thing. And what in god’s name had that woman, Wilkinson, been thinking. 

Waiting for the bus was horrible, pacing and jittery movements as if he’d drunk too much coffee. He was tempted to just start running home, but that would be impractical and only tire him out. There had been no answer when he’d called his father a couple of minutes ago and Stiles was worried. What was going on? What was going to happen?

A woman had arrived at the stop, keeping a distance from him as she eyed him warily. Stiles didn’t know what he looked like but it couldn’t have been a too sane impression he gave off. It was as if his skin itched, he kept scratching at the tattoos. All in his head of course, but he couldn’t stop.

Finally the bus arrived and he ignored the woman who wanted to get on as well as he nearly pushed her aside to get in. He muttered a half-hearted apology, making some strange movement with his hands, _sorry sorry._ The vehicle was crowded but he found a space in the back, again taking the paper out of his bag.

Stiles couldn’t mask his irritation when the man next to him started talking to him: the bald man pointed at the picture and declared, “Awful, isn’t it? I thought werewolves were the only things out there,” _things_ he said with obvious distaste, “but apparently not. Isn’t it just awful?” Stiles grunted, not a yes, not a no. The stranger pushed his glassed up his nose and went on with his colourful monologue, ignoring the angry look Stiles wore on his face. He was talking smack, unforgiving utterances about the supernatural. The man didn’t pay attention to Stiles’ reaction and continued, “I don’t agree with it all, and I’m not the only one. It’s been forty years now, but I’m still not convinced. And now with _these_ things? What on earth is going on? Awful, just awful. So dangerous and scary, I can’t be-,”

“Oh, my god. Stop!” Stiles all but yelled, attracting even more gazes from other passengers. “You have no, you don’t …, I … Just stop talking. Stop.” His heart was hammering unpleasantly and he got up to sit elsewhere, eyes on him. The bald man looked shocked at his rudeness and Stiles heard him mutter, “Well, I have never …Young people, nowadays.” One look backwards and Stiles could see the man had already started speaking to someone else, a vulture digging its claws into the next target.

At home the house was empty. Grabbing the landline, he called the station again but was informed the Sheriff had just left the office for an errand. Stiles hoped this “errand” translated into going home. He was right: the door opened ten minutes later and they locked eyes before his dad strode in and sighed deeply. The newspaper lay on the table in the dining room, spread out. 

“No beating around the bush, what the hell is going to happen?” Stiles demanded. “What are we going to do?”

The answer was disappointing, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? You’re the adult, here. You’re supposed to know!” Stiles flailed. “Are we like, in danger now? Is this gonna, are we …? What do we do?”

His father remained calm. “I don’t know.”

“Damn it!” Stiles yelled. At his father’s raised brow he added, “No reprimanding me for swearing, this is a situation in which swearing is completely appropriate! Fuck! Shit! _Shit god damn it._ Motherfucking fuck!”

“ _Stiles_.”

“No! No! I will not stop, this is justified. We are in deep shit! Knee deep.” The verbal diarrhoea wouldn’t stop.

“Stiles, calm down, okay? Just,” his father spread out his hands in a horizontal line.  

The panic attack that was surfacing without him even being conscious of it slowly subdued, his father standing next to him quietly, instructing him to breathe in a steady rhythm. 

“Son, I don’t know what’s going to happen. We’re just going to have to wait.” His father listened to him as he rambled on about becoming test rats. “Oh, god, we’re gonna be locked up, and oh, jeus, all the needles, prodded and poked at, dad, I bet we’ll be locked and treated like Frankenstein’s monster, except that we’ve got no maker and-,” Stiles didn’t know why he was fixated on that, but he realized it was a big fear for him: being locked up, stripped away of free will, being tested. “I won’t let that happen, Es, don’t worry.” But he did worry. 

Around noon, his dad had to go back to the station. “I’ll give Charlie a call before I leave, though I’m sure she’s already aware of what’s happened.” Stiles nodded from where he was sitting on the couch, a little ball of nerves. His dad promised to call as soon as there was any more information. “You should go back to your classes, Stiles, life hasn’t stopped. 

This time he wasn’t harassed by any bald men on the ride back.

 

+

 

 _More information_ only came two days later, during which time the world went a little off the rocker. It was the talk of the town, or the world, rather. _Everybody_ was talking about it and Stiles just wanted everyone to shut the hell up. He felt the need to punch someone in the face. He opted for his pillow instead. 

The new information made the Tenners and the Stilinskis despair: the woman, _that_ _stupid woman_ Stiles called her angrily, had royally spilled the beans. She had been questioned about the incident, and an entire wealthof knowledge on this new race was made public. Empaths, they were called. They could control minds. They influenced emotions. Gold turned them violent. The metal had to enter their system to fully take effect. No kryptonite.

Stiles’ mouth dropped open wider and wider as he read the more recent, detailed article in the paper. “Why the hell would she admit to all this?” He looked up from where he was sitting, into the faces of his father, Charlie, Rose and Evan –he was back for a two-week break from South America. Peanuts was completely empty save for the two families. They sat at an oak table in the middle of the bar, a pitcher of lemonade on the table and five untouched glasses. “Seriously, why?”

Charlie spoke up after a silence, wondering aloud about _methods of persuasion_. Stiles had to admit he hadn’t even thought about that. Had Wilkinson given the information up freely? The article mentioned no resistance of any kind, but Stiles was aware that kind of thing wouldn’t be mentioned.

“Why on earth didn’t she pull the mind control trick? To make people forget, or to stop the pictures, or something?” Stiles asked.

Rose answered, “Maybe she didn’t know how to do it. Not everyone has a Charlie in their life.”

“What about the gold?” Evan looked at the rest.

“The drink,” Rose continued. “They celebrated after the debate. The article explained it was this beverage with, like, gold flakes in it or something.” Stiles cursed extravagant luxuries.

“And she didn’t fucking notice?!”

“ _Stiles._ ”

“Sorry, but seriously, how could she not notice? It’s _gold_.”

“Maybe she didn’t know?” Charlie offered.

Stiles shook his head in quick snaps and held the paper in his hand, tapped at it, “No, can’t be, it says here that she told the reporters gold affects us, like … uh, makes us violent and stuff.”

His father narrowed his eyes, “Maybe she was not the only one giving away information.”

“What imbecile empath would willingly give up that information?” Stiles was angry. “And that would have to have been willingly since no other empaths were hauled off to juvie. Uh, the station, I mean.” Wilkinson hadn’t been sentenced to anything yet. “No others were involved.”

Charlie gave an answer that was far more plausible. “Werewolf.” A loaded answer, for sure.

The table was quiet. Stiles felt eyes on him, but looking up he realized it was his own paranoia playing tricks on his mind. They weren’t attacking the Hales –by now everyone at the table knew the extent of his relationship with them- they were just contemplating the possibility: a werewolf.

“Is there any way of finding out,” Rose asked in a clear voice, “if a werewolf was involved, giving extra information?” The question was directed at the Sheriff. “I could ask,” he replied, “but I doubt they will give the information. Besides, asking would raise suspicion. It’s a pretty specific question.”

“Yes,” Charlie agreed, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Just keep your eyes and ears open, John?” The Sherriff glanced at him son briefly, who had a sullen look on his face, seemingly lost in thought. “Of course.”

Rose let out an enormous sigh that put all the other sighs in the world to shame. She sounded exhausted and worried, as if preparing for something warlike. Whatever that something was, Stiles didn’t think it would be pretty. Evan squeezed her shoulders.

 

+

 

 

The next fiasco took place soon after. Some _ridiculous_ werewolf –Stiles had been very generous with his use of adjectives over the last few days- named Eli Akerson had announced on TV, the _absolute moron_ , that empaths were few in numbers, but extremely dangerous. The mind control kept coming back. Of course the _jackass_ didn’t mention the fact that it was very difficult for empaths to control minds, let alone on a big scale. Stiles felt a strong need to defend empaths. _What is this guy doing? He’s turning the world against us._

Ironically people gave the werewolf credence. After all he was supernatural as well, surely he knew more of it than humans? Or maybe it had to do with the fact that he was a middle-aged white male who cleaned up well in a suit.

The tone was set when Akerson answered the question why the world had not been told of the existence of empaths –a word that Stiles heard everywhere nowadays. Akerson had said, in a very grave tone, “We chose not to make it public knowledge, because we wanted to deal with them ourselves. We wanted to spare the world this horror.” _Deal with them_. Stiles repeated the words incredulously to Evan and Rose after one of his mind control classes (those went on, regardless of recent events). “Deal with us? As in insinuate that we are hunted! As in giving people the fucking idea we _need_ to be hunted?” Evan’s reasonable words did nothing to placate him. He had gone home and tossed and turned in his bed all night.

What had not escaped Stiles’ notice was the absence of werewolves who defended them. It couldn’t be that all werewolves shared Akerson’s views. It just couldn’t be. Stiles didn’t accept it. But where were the others then, the ones who weren’t at odds with his kind? Did powerful figures in the media stop it from becoming public, a corrupt game of power? Or was there an ugly reality Stiles didn’t want to face, that no one was on their side?

Another reality he didn’t want to face was the Hales. Ever since that stupid first article, now two weeks passed, he’d spent little time with them. The fact that Derek seemed to be in a pissy mood didn’t help. Stiles didn’t believe in coincidences: the mood had started at around the same time as the incident with the empath. As usual, he opted for his frequently used motto: ignore a problem until it goes away. Stiles hadn’t asked why Derek snapped at him or why the guy _growled, fucking growled_ at Laura when she demanded he stop. Instead, Stiles had left, angry. No confrontation like no confrontation.

The Hales had admitted to Stiles and Scott that they knew empaths existed. His best friend handled the situation with more enthusiasm than Stiles had expected. Scott found empaths _interesting_ , he had said. Stiles had laughed: it was the first positive thing he’d heard since mid-May. “They are interesting, Scott,” Laura had agreed, “but you should also watch out for them.” Stiles’ mood had immediately dampened. Derek wasn’t present during this exchange, presumably upstairs in his still pissy mood. Eventually, tough, Derek calmed down. He apologized to the entire pack but offered no explanation.

As Derek calmed down, the world went mad. Stiles’ fear materialized as he saw how it all went down the drain: people weren’t defending them, especially because _that jerkwad_ Akerson forcefully kept reminding everyone who would listen –and that was a lot of people- that empaths had no kryptonite, no weaknesses. “We haven’t ways to protect ourselves against these creatures without morals. They will lure and twist your mind, I warn you.” What never came up, of course it didn’t, was that empaths were overall kind, trustworthy even. It was part of their nature.

People are sheep, Stiles decided. He watched in horror at the news speaker who agreed and continued to interview everyday Americans, one determined face after the other, all agreeing. Stiles was absolutely furious. “How can everyone be so naïve, and believe everything they hear? Christ on a stick! This is fucked up!” By now, his father had stopped intervening whenever his son cursed. Futile.

Every day, something was written about the whole thing in the papers. Whatever happened to Andrea Wilkinson remained vague, suspiciously so. According to the media, she was sent to a prison to serve a six months sentence, assault and battery. However, when his dad checked the records, it seemed she had never arrived at the intended prison. No newspaper mentioned this. Stiles was screaming at the universe. He couldn’t remember a time in his life he had felt this cheated: all these lies they were feeding people, all this blackmouthing of their kind, completely bending truth. Life really wasn’t fair.

“I thought you wanted to be _out_ ,” his father joked. 

“I am out,” he joked back. A smile surfaced on his father’s face. 

But truly, it wasn’t funny at all. What is funny about being turned into a villain when you’ve done nothing wrong? Hearing words like _witch, devil_ , spat out? What’s funny about seeing people you’ve never met judge you based on other’s people’s word? Their collective fear turning into determination, determination to _do something about it_. And it would happen, Stiles was sure of it. People wanted to do something about it, werewolves and humans alike. Stiles wasn’t blind to the growing tumult. This time ignoring the problem wouldn’t work.


	21. The Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty short one. Only a few more chapter left after this!

Stiles had always been interested in history. What fascinated and horrified him was that people seemed to be making the same mistake over and over again. In his mind, nature equalled chaos. There was no such thing as compartmentalisation: there was no wrong and there was no right in nature. But people didn’t seem to accept that. People are addicted to order, he’d written once in an essay for school. Fear is a great motivator, and a way to deal with fear is to counteract it with control. So that’s what people do, they control. Over and over again, they want to control. Neat lines, strict rules, a laid out plan to follow. And a deviation? No, a deviation is not permitted. Deviations are kicked to the curb, smitten down, hushed into corners and _neutralized_. To Stiles, these deviations and the forms they took on throughout history weren’t deviations, because a standard didn’t _exist_ in the chaos of nature. “No such thing,” he’d said to his teacher, Mrs. King. The essay had scored him a straight A. He wondered what she would have to say about all of this.

The world didn’t agree, however. Empaths were deviations. And it killed him to see history repeating itself. Somehow, the werewolves had succeeded in being accepted though they were considered to be different. Maybe it had to do with the fact that werewolves were presented as being orderly themselves, or because they _could_ be controlled with wolfsbane. Empaths had neither of these advantages. They couldn’t be controlled, and they could mess with what people considered sacred; free will. Now those last two words were used as gunfire, blasted at people to try to engage them in organised distrust towards empaths.

It worked. June 2014 brought about a new law. 

“What new law?” Cora asked. Scott had brought up the subject and told the group his mother had seen on the news that morning a new law had been made. Stiles knew about it already, his father having informed him a week before. Afterwards he had gone over to Peanuts and had convinced Rose to go out and get hammered, celebrating the new law (desperate sarcasm). It had been a sad affair and the next day he’d had a terrible hangover, Scott laughing at him good-naturedly.

“One for the empaths. Like, from now on, if you know one, you have to tell the police or something,” Scott recounted. They were over at the Hales, sitting on the couches. Stiles sat on the floor, leaning against one of the couches and tapping the coffee table rhythmically with his shoe. Derek sat behind him, leg warm against his shoulder.

Stiles recited from memory in a bleak tone, “Obligated by law to inform the nearest group of authority in order to preserve stability in our society.” Laura lifted her eyebrows. “Dad told me,” Stiles offered as an explanation. He took a deep breath and was irritated to note it was shaky. He coughed quickly and turned his head, shutting his eyes against Derek’s knee. He wasn’t getting enough sleep, thoughts warring in his head at night. A hand lay on his head, ruffling hair that was getting longer.

The others went on talking and while Stiles was listening to what they were saying, he didn’t want to partake in the conversation. A thought struck him: maybe the people who were so prejudiced against werewolves –and realized they couldn’t fight this group- turned all of their hatred towards the next best thing: empaths.

Suddenly, he just wanted out of there. He opened his eyes, got up and tugged on Derek’s arm. Before they ascended the stairs, though, he received a question from Laura. “Hey, one second.” Stiles turned back around and looked into her hopeful blue eyes. “It’s been a while since your father has known about you and Derek, I just wanted to ask if we could all get together. For a dinner, maybe?”

It was strange, really, to see her so hesitant and tentative. It reminded Stiles of that time Scott had asked him over to the Hales almost two years ago; the same anxious tone hid in her voice now. “Oh,” he said, and he realized the _oh_ sounded like an _oh, god, no_. “Uh, sure, yeah. Yeah, sounds good,” he quickly rectified. He flashed her a smile –not sure it was genuine or not. Stiles felt Laura’s brief confusion before it settled into satisfaction.

He turned back to Derek, “Let’s go make out.” The guy shook his head and said, “You always say these things _,_ completely tactless.” Stiles huffed, “And yet I landed you. I refuse to believe you’re still not used to it, sourpuss.” He kissed him. Scott groaned in the background, “For the millionth time, Stiles, please stop flirting in our presence, I can’t handle it.” Secretly, Stiles did it on purpose, it provided for some light entertainment, watching his friend squirm. And he needed it, light entertainment. Life was shitty right now.

 

+

 

“Stiles, are you okay?”

Stiles wanted to curse him. He’d finally fallen asleep, _finally_. Of course now Derek asked the question while he was in a semi vegetative state, innocent memories of his trip with Scott dangling in the back of his mind. Reluctantly he opened his eyes and looked at Derek who was staring at him in concern. “You seem …off, lately. More so than usual.”

“I wasn’t aware I was usually off.” His voice sounded squeaky at the soft volume. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, hearing the blood rush in his ears.

“Come on, you know what I mean.” Yes, Stiles did.

“Mh…” He lifted his shoulders, a universal sign for I-don’t-know. “Nothing.”

“Lie,” Derek said quietly. Well, Stiles thought, at least this time he isn’t yelling at me about lying.

What truth could he spill? “I’m just kind of… I don’t know. The whole thing about empaths. The way people react. It’s so … I just can’t believe people agree so quickly with all of this.”

Derek was still beside him, leaning against the headboard. “Why do you care?”

“Why do I care? Why not? It’s going on right in front of us. Of course I care, don’t you?”

“No.” Lie.

“Really?” Stiles asked incredulously.

“No, I don’t.” Lie. Stiles peeked into Derek’s feelings, and he sensed sadness. And anger.

“I don’t believe you.”

Without warning, Derek turned and shut off the light. He slid under the sheets and slid close to Stiles, who protested. Derek ignored him. Something wasn’t right. And now Stiles couldn’t fall asleep. _Double shit._ He went downstairs once Derek had fallen asleep and watched an old movie that was on TV, Blade Runner. Gloomy film, gloomy mind. Cora joined him around two a.m. “Couldn’t sleep either?” “Nope.”

He awoke with a painful neck cramp, having fallen asleep at a weird angle. Cora was gone. Instead, Derek loomed over him, “Morning.” It was accusatory, definitely. “Yo. Blade Runner was on last night. Seen it? It’s a good movie. You should’ve seen it.”

He got a pointed look. “I was asleep.” Okay, then. Stiles got out of the couch and walked past Derek to get to the kitchen. The Hales had good cereal, the expensive kind.

Derek had to work that day and since the semester was over and Stiles had no plans, he accompanied him. Being in the same room with Derek when he worked was, simply put, like heaven. Like smoking a joint without destroying brain cells. Like taking a long, warm shower without actually having to step into the cubicle. Like being buzzed without imbibing anything.

When Derek was busy, sawdust flying in the air into his own hair, the guy felt so at peace it had a drugging effect on Stiles. He focused on Derek and calmed down completely, mind empty for once. Usually he took a book with him or played on his phone, otherwise he grew bored. Today, he slept on a makeshift bed –two blankets and a semi comfortable cushion. But whatever he did, it didn’t really matter: he was at peace as long as Derek was. It was like a bubble, nothing from the outside reaching in. In a way, how he felt reminded him of the ballet dancer he’d seen all those months ago with Rose. He felt in his element, and though her passion had been active, his seemed to be passive. It was there, in that workshop, he was completely at ease.

He woke up hours later, a warm body plastered to his side.


	22. Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crash! 
> 
> note: trigger warning: mention of rape, not between Stiles-Derek. If there's anything in regard to this missing in my tags, please let me know!

It was the little things that made life better: hanging out with Scott and the Hales, playing mindless video games, spending time with Derek alone, going out to the beach and enjoying the summer sun with his friends –sticky slurpies and sunblocked bodies. While he tried focusing on that, it was nearly impossible to avoid the punches reality kept landing. More and more often, his dad reported that someone had alerted the presence of an empath. Though all cases were from outside of Beacon Hills –so far –, the citizens of the city were agitated as well.

In the streets Stiles saw posters advertising the new law –propaganda with treacherous words like “duty” and “protection”. Stiles couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Beacon Hills was a modern city; he had expected a little more lenience and acceptance. Even the centre where Laura worked at, defending the rights of both werewolves and humans, showed no signs of being open to empaths. _What is wrong with everybody?_

Apart from the blatant propaganda, there were also anti-empath groups that started forming in the city, steadily increasing his unease. There was a lot of shouting and there were angry faces, yelling, “We want them out!” or “Are you sure your child isn’t being brainwashed?” All sorts of horrible, completely unjustified accusations. It made him want to hurl.

Rose admitted to him she was scared. “God, Essie. What if anyone finds out? I don’t want to die.” They were walking side by side in the woods, wind blowing leaves everywhere. The sky was uncharacteristically dark for this time of day, all colours subdued in the grey light.

“I know. I mean, I knew we were a minority, but this … I never expected this. It’s nuts. Why do werewolves get treated so differently?” He kicked at a pebble, sending it flying across the wide path. She made a noise and sighed, “I don’t know. Maybe because we’re not, like, a united front. So far there’s only been that Wilkinson woman in May and that other woman Sasha who admitted to being empaths openly.” Said Sasha lived in Australia and had “mysteriously disappeared”. _Mysteriously, my ass._

“You know, I suggested to dad, maybe we should make ourselves known, and show people we can be trusted. He’s been a dependable officer of the law ever since we came here, and they know us, they know him. Everyone likes him. Plus, I mean, we’re even friends with werewolv-,”

“Who don’t even know what you really are! Who you really are.” That was the reality of it, really. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it in a comforting manner.

“I know,” he muttered. “Dad said the same thing, and then he went a little crazy and told me that admitting we were empaths was as good as committing suicide right now.” Rose agreed. They walked on, shuddering. The forest was cool and the wind harsh.

Stiles was balancing on a boulder, Rose walking a circle around him when she surprised him completely, “Mom wants to move,” she said. Stiles jumped off the rock, “Move?! Move where?”

She looked uneasy, both hands holding the ends of her shirt as she flattened it,the checkered pattern distorted. “Out of Beacon Hills. It’s too dangerous here, she thinks.”

“But … but what about Peanuts? She can’t just abandon it?”

“She’s already had buyers come take a look at the place. It’s quite a gem, according to most,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone that hid her sadness.

“Wh-, well, you can’t just _move_! Where are you gonna go? Why would it be safer elsewhere?” Stiles was flailing his arms, with an angry frown in place.

“She doesn’t know yet. She just wants out of here. It’s getting too restless, and she’s scared, too. My grandparents still live in Sacramento, but it’s no better there. She wants them to come with us. Maybe to Canada somewhere. And we don’t know if it’s safer elsewhere. But it’s not safe here, we know that.”

“But… What about us?” It was such a naked question, no reserve.

Rose didn’t hesitate as she suggested, “Come with.”

_No_ was the first word that came to mind. He didn’t want to leave.

She took his silence for an answer. “You love him, don’t you?” He nodded and gave her a watery smile that was more a grimace than an expression of joy. “Am I that see-through?”

“Honestly, no, not really. But you know,” she nudged his shoulders, “It’s obvious to me.”

He walked a little further ahead. As loud as he could he yelled _fuck_ , the sound echoing in the woods. He turned back around and declared, “Okay, that felt good.” She smiled at him, genuinely. “How did you get yourself in this situation, Es?” _You mean lying to people you love?_ “I do _not_ know,” he groaned. He dumped himself on the dirty ground, soon joined by his friend. He admitted quietly, “I’m torn.”

At home, his father came into his bedroom and Stiles told him the news of Charlie wanting to get the heck out of dodge. As expected, his dad thought it a wise plan. He made no secret of it that he wanted to go with them. Stiles, on the other hand –as his father expected– did not. And Stiles wouldn’t lie about it, this time. He wouldn’t come up with a pathetic excuse, like wanting to finish his college years in the same place. No, he came right out and said it to his father for the first time. “I love him and I don’t want to leave.”

“Son, he doesn’t _know_ you. He doesn’t even know who you are!” He gave Stiles a hopeless look. His dad was still wearing his uniform, not having bothered to change it once he had got home from work –which became later and later nowadays. He sat down next to Stiles on the bed.

“I am not defined by my empathy, okay? It’s a part of me, sure, just like it’s a part of you, but it doesn’t _define_ me.”

 “I don’t agree with you,” his father said. “How can you say it doesn’t define you? It’s _been_ you for the past three years, Es, this isn’t just-,”

“I don’t fucking care,” he ground out –though he knew his father had a point. “I don’t care,” he repeated, the lie obvious to his own ears. “I won’t leave.”

“And how do you know he won’t leave you once he finds out?” It was a low blow, and it stung. The horrible truth of the matter was, Stiles wasn’t sure Derek wouldn’t. He just convinced himself, over and over, _he won’t leave._

“Dad. Please, just please, okay? I don’t want to leave and I don’t want you to go. It’s not a fucking warzone here, okay? We can stay.” How desperate did he sound, he wondered.

“I’m not leaving without you, kid.” The man gave him a stern look, one he was used to seeing. The thought of his dad leaving without him scared the shit out of Stiles. “So the ball’s in my court, then?” It didn’t sound smug, mostly cheerless and sombre. He didn’t receive a yes or no, only a, “Let’s just see what happens.” That was probably the most he was likely to get.

 

While his dad was cooking downstairs –he could smell onions- he changed into his pyjamas, put on his headphones and escaped reality for a full half hour before returning downstairs, a warm meal waiting for him.

 

+

 

“I love you, you know that, right?” Stiles asked.

A strange smile appeared on Derek’s face as he lifted his brows. “Yes, I do.” Obviously confused, the guy shook his head. “Why are you asking? You’re not dying or anything, are you?”

Stiles shook his head in return, “I hope not, no.” He repositioned himself on the couch, staring at the TV screen. It wasn’t enough to distract him. “Hey, hey,” poke poke, “kiss me,” he demanded. Stiles sensed Derek’s interest peak. “You’re weird and I kind of love it,” Derek admitted quietly after a couple of seconds.

“Kind of?”

 

+

 

A few weeks later the dinner Laura had suggested took place in the Stilinski household. His father hadn’t been too up for the idea, but conceded anyways.

Stiles opened the door and smiled at the Hale clan and Scott, “Come in, come in.” A pat, a smile, a look and a kiss greeted him. All of them moved in synch, encompassing him and Stiles was momentarily struck at how they really made a group, a pack. It was so effortless and Laura looked happy, clearly aware of it.

His father appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and everyone greeted each other, almost timidly. 

Apparently, his father had wanted to avoid having an awkward dinner, so he’d prepared for it: after making a small detour in the living room, his dad came back to the kitchen where all the guests were standing around, looking relaxed. “Here’s some pictures of Es when he was a kid,” his father announced. _Damn him_. “Dad, come on, why?” Laura laughed and accepted the photo album from his father. While the three Hales and Scott looked at the pictures – _ooh, ah, ha!, oh my god, Stiles, this is hilarious_ (mostly Laura) – Stiles quickly and messily set the table.

“Oh, are these, what were their names, again?” Laura pointed at a picture of Stiles, Rose and Evan when they were just a few years old. “Didn’t you say you all used to live in Sacramento?” On the photograph, Stiles was pushing Evan sideways whilst the two were sitting on the floor. Evan looked angry and his sister was standing up straight next to them, striking a pose and flashing a smile at the camera. “Yeah, and Evan and Rose,” Stiles answered. “A long, long time ago,” he added dramatically. “Good old days."

They continued to look through the album and Stiles actually laughed along. Sure, it was kind of embarrassing –he was not photogenic-, but it was nice. He couldn’t help but notice Derek smiling from time to time.

Once they were all seated, each with a plate of food before them –mashed potatoes and peas with a steak, a classic but hearty meal-, conversation fell into a lull. Laura politely inquired after the Sheriff’s job and his father politely answered. Thankfully, Laura knew how to keep things going, and she proceeded to effortlessly carry on the conversation.

“What drew you to Beacon Hills, John?” Laura asked. She took a mouthful of peas and looked at his father, waiting for a reply.

“Uhm … Well, we knew Charlie from before and she’d moved here. So we joined her.”

“And before that you lived in Sacramento?”

His father nodded, “Yes.” The two-year wandering period wasn’t talked about, apparently?

Stiles spoke up. “We moved around for two years in between, though.”

“You never mentioned that,” Derek said.

“Yeah, no, we were nomads for a while after my mother died.” His father shot him a brief look. Stiles didn’t really know what it meant. It wasn’t as if they would start asking about the hows or whys of her death.

“Speaking of mothers, Scott, how is Melissa doing?” The Sheriff directed his attention to Scott and swiftly veered away from Stiles’ mom as a topic.

Scott swallowed his food, “Good, yeah, she’s really busy, though. She says sorry again for not being able to make it.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Another time,” his father said. Stiles was hopeful at hearing the words. His dad continued, “I heard your father will come to visit next week?”

Scott tensed only slightly, not even noticeable if Stiles hadn’t been looking for it. “Yeah, he was supposed to, but we postponed it. There were some problems, official FBI business or something.” Stiles shook his head, _typical._

“Nothing serious, I hope?” Laura asked. Apparently Scott hadn’t told her about it yet.

Scott sighed, “Yeah, actually. Didn’t you hear about that? Some werewolf attacked this empath and killed him brutally. It was gnarly.” Stiles’ eyes flickered over to his father, whose face barely changed. Stiles tried to achieve the same. It worked.

“Brutally?” Cora asked.

Her sister put down her fork and frowned, “Oh, I did hear something about that. It was in Washington, no?” Derek was silent, eating on.

“Yeah, Washington,” Scott confirmed.

“It wasn’t mentioned how she died, though,” Laura said. Of course it wasn’t mentioned.

Stiles was aware of the killing –no, the murder. He’d already mourned it. _Brutally_ , in his opinion, was putting it lightly.  His disgust had been palpable as his dad told him how it happened. Stiles would’ve used the words _mauled to death by a lunatic_. The werewolf was in custody now.

“My dad would barely tell me anything about it,” Scott said. “But he did say it was bad. They had to clean up the mess, so he isn’t coming.” _Clean up the mess._ _We’re messes to be cleaned up._ Stiles was getting angry. He viciously cut into his steak and started chewing on a mouthful. Noisily, he swallowed. His father was worried.

Derek finally spoke, “As far as I’m concerned they can all end up the same way.” The fork picking at peas slipped out of Stiles’ control and a sound like sharp fingernails being dragged against blackboard filled the air. Stiles saw his father flinch in the corner of his eye.

“What the _fuck_ , man?” Stiles directed at Derek. Everyone at the table stopped chewing and stared at him.

“They’re dangerous, Stiles.”

Stiles’ eyes bugged out, “ _They_ are dangerous? _Them?_ Have you looked in the mirror? Last time I checked they weren’t the ones able to rip someone to shreds in a matter of seconds, jesus!” Stiles sensed the others grow restless, feel insulted. Derek wasn’t backing down, “Didn’t you see what happened? That other woman, that first empath, she attacked someone.”

Stiles put down the knife he’d been holding halfway in the air with a loud clonk. “Well, they explained it, didn’t they? It was because of the gold. It’s not like those empaths are always like that. Kind of like werewolves and omegas,” Stiles angrily reminded him.

The only response was a pig-headed, “They’re all dangerous. She _admitted_ to their kind being able to manipulate people. How is that not dangerous?” Laura looked as if she was about to intervene but Stiles wouldn’t give her the time of day. “And you would judge an entire race on the actions of a few individuals? Oh, my god, _you_? The guy who hates how prejudiced people are towards _your kind_?” He was sneering, his voice ugly. Next to him, he could feel his dad was trying to calm him down, adding a pointed “ _Stiles_.”

When it was quiet for a couple of seconds Scott looked at him worriedly, “Stiles, what has gotten into you, dude?” What had gotten into Stiles was all the pent up frustration and anger released, like a fucking typhoon. He looked back over at Derek, whose face was a mask that betrayed nothing of the anger or embarrassment he felt. Stiles didn’t give a fuck right now, though, because he was feeling pretty furious and humiliated himself. Oh god, and his dad was sitting right there, front row ticket to his world falling apart before him.

“What are you staring at me for like that?” Stiles yelled at Derek. “What gives _you_ the right to be angry in all of this?” His father said, “Calm down, Es.” Stiles looked over at him, tearing furious eyes away from Derek, who sat still on his chair, arms folded and eyes hard on Stiles.

“Why do you care so much about them, Stiles?” Derek asked, tight-lipped.

Pushing back his chair, causing it to make a scraping noise against the floor, Stiles shot back,  “Because, _Derek_ , they’re like you, _different_. And instead of helping, you’re condemning them like the rest of the world.”

“They are nothing like us,” Derek snapped. Stiles felt his blood boil, saw his tattoos changing shape at an alarming speed. “I don’t understand any of you,” he said to the table. He pushed his chair back under the table, a little too forcefully, and walked away. He slammed the door to his bedroom. 

The door handle clicked, closed again and his father came in and took a sweater hung over his desk chair and put it against the bottom part of the door to muffle any noises they made. Stiles was sitting on the floor, lotus position and tried to breathe calmly – he failed miserably. His dad shuffled closer and sat down opposite of him. The feeling of calm his dad was creating for him helped cool him down. They both leaned forward and Stiles whispered as quietly as he could, the words barely audible to his own ears, “If you dare say _I told you so_ right now, I’m going to cry and I guarantee you, it’s going to be ugly.” His father surprised him by letting out a huff, “Never, Essie.” Regardless of the statement, Stiles felt an angry tear slip overboard. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mouthed. “I can’t do this right now, they’re right _here_.” 

His dad put his hands on Stiles’ forearms, inches of skin covered in scrambled lines. He refused to let himself get a sense of what his dad was feeling, sure it would be disappointment or something equally upsetting. The only thing his father did, though, was whisper “You’re my son, Stiles, and I will always love you, okay, no matter what.” Stiles nodded. Nothing like the comfort of a parent.

The Hales left while they were upstairs, only Scott staying behind. His best friend helped clean up the kitchen in what could only be described as a painful silence. After seeing how tired Stiles was, Scott gave him an encouraging hug and got ready to leave. “I’m sorry, Stiles.”

He hesitated for a second, “Do you agree with Derek? What he said?” Scott hesitated as well, but shook his head. “I don’t think we should trust them, but we should give them a chance. I don’t really understand what Derek’s problem is.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Scott asked before stepping into the hallway. The dinner had barely lasted an hour. Stiles shrugged. It was obvious he was looking for comfort, but was too stubborn to ask for it. “I’m staying,” Scott decided and smiled at him. The two slept in Stiles’ bedroom like they had done so often before: Scott on the floor on a second mattress taken from the spare room hardly anyone ever used. Scott, the eternal sweetheart.

 

+

 

Seven days passed without a word from Derek and he couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to see him. During those seven days, he put all his effort into his work. The summer was over, the year had begun, but Stiles had not been paying attention the first few weeks of his second year at university. During seminars and lectures, his mind was too occupied by life’s cruelties. It was an excellent time to catch up on his schoolwork. Or so he told himself. In truth, the fight he’d had with Derek kept running through his mind.

On the one hand he was still angry, and wanted nothing more than stay away from Derek. On the other hand, he wanted to go back. They hadn’t broken up, the words hadn’t been said, but they certainly weren’t in a good place. Stiles felt like crap. Like a big, smelly pile of garbage. He didn’t shower or take proper care of his eating patterns. The circle under his eyes seemed permanent after several nights of disturbed sleep. His father was worried and eventually ordered him to take a shower, blocking the way to his bedroom until Stiles reluctantly returned into the bathroom after having used the toilet and turned on the water. He looked and smelled infinitely better, but felt the same. 

Right now, he was standing in front of the Hales’ apartment door. He didn’t really come with the idea in mind that he would apologize; he didn’t think he was wrong. He _knew_ he wasn’t wrong. Okay, admittedly, he’d reacted intensely, but he wasn’t wrong. He hoped Derek would apologize. If he didn’t, what could Stiles say or do? How could he accept to be in a relationship with someone who thought of him like that, _a threat that could end up dead, for all Derek cared?_ Despite the risk, there he was: a moth to the flame, ready to be burned.

Laura’s face greeted him as the door swung open, calm and friendly. He felt her anxiety, though, and appreciated her effort to make him feel at ease. “Hey, Laura.” She greeted him by pulling him into a hug, one he returned with the thought, _how often will this still happen in the future? Will I be here? Stop thinking like this, jesus. No one’s dead._ Cora was half asleep on one of the couches, watching some programme Stiles didn’t recognize. Cora’s eyes lifted and she said hello. “Hey,” he replied.

Rip off the band-aid, right? “Where-.” Laura didn’t let him finish, just pointed upstairs, “Upstairs. Sulking.” Stiles couldn’t even manage to smile at that, instead he nodded and trudged up the stairs. It was cold in their apartment –usually Derek served as a heater. A big, warm heater. _Damn it._

Stiles knocked on the door, an uncharacteristic courtesy. Any other time, he would simply barge in. Childishly, no answer came, so he just pushed down the handle and entered. Derek was standing upright facing him, probably had been waiting for him to come in. Derek looked … sadly, Stiles realized, Derek looked just like the first couple of times he met him: stoic and cool, a tumult of emotion buried inside.

Their silent standoff was broken when Stiles moved forward. _How ridiculous,_ he thought. _Why is it in these types of situations people fuck instead of talk?_ _Because it’s easier, dumbass._ He kissed and groped Derek without reserve, edging towards painful, wondering if this would be the last time. _Stop thinking like this, you fatalistic idiot._ His cynical side answered, _Why not? It might be true._

They ended up in bed, naked and out of breath, Derek’s leg touching Stiles’. Slowly Stiles started to drift off to sleep. He had his back turned to Derek when he heard Derek say quietly, “Kate was an empath.”

Had someone dropped an ice-cold bucket of water over his head, the shock might have been less shattering. He thanked the heavens he wasn’t facing Derek: his reaction would have been a dead giveaway. Stiles closed his eyes and let out a breath, then bit his lip, hard, but let go before drawing blood. It took an enormous effort, but he managed to change a face of desperation into one of sympathy and disgust –it wasn’t faked. Had Kate tricked him into sleeping with her? _Oh, god, that’s rape_.

Stiles turned around and sat up straight, “I’m so sorry. Oh, my god.” He realized he wasn’t only apologizing for the past and what had happened to Derek, but also for what he was doing right now: still lying.

“I don’t know what to say.” He didn’t. What the hell could he say? What the fuck was he supposed to do now? How could this ever end well? _See?_ the cynical voice in his mind taunted. Stiles cursed himself. He should’ve put two and two together. He knew Derek didn’t trust people easily, and Stiles assumed that was the reason Derek didn’t like empaths.  The thought that Kate could have been more than a hunter hadn’t crossed his mind, and now he felt like a complete fool for not seeing it sooner. To him, Kate was never anything more than a psychotic woman with a dangerous hate for werewolves.

Derek wasn’t looking at him. Instead, the guy was staring at his hands. The image made him look like a shy ten-year-old, unsure of what to do next. Stiles didn’t know what to do either. The idea of touching Derek right now was repulsive. He imagined himself as Kate, even though it was not at all the same. It never had been.  

“She lied to me. She used me,” Derek said. _Jesus Christ,_ _he’s going to think I did the same._ _He’s never going to believe me._ It was unbearable, the pain and anger Derek was giving off.

“A rogue hunter.” Stiles repeated the words confided to him all those months ago. “She tricked you so she could … kill your family.” Derek didn’t answer, but that was an answer anyways. _What’s wrong with the universe? What kind of fucked up joke is this?_ Stiles didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

What he did instead, was lie next to Derek, not touching him, murmuring over and over, “I’m sorry,” while he waited for Derek to fall asleep. It took a long time, both minds elsewhere. In the end, Derek did apologize for what happened. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just …” Stiles finished for him, “Angry, I know.” He paused. “But you shouldn’t let her ruin everything. She was psychotic, Derek, it had nothing to do with her being an empath. They’re not dangerous.” _I’m not dangerous. I’m not like her._ Derek, looking small and hurt, didn’t answer to that. Stiles was left with a feeling of desperate restlessness.

Once Derek was sleeping, he left and went home where he let himself have a proper panic attack, complete with sound effects, shaking shoulders and waterworks. He told his father everything.


	23. Evan

 

+

Evan

 

Evan spotted his mother, Rose and Stiles waiting for him at the exit of the airport. His sister’s face broke into an enormous grin and she raced forward to give him a tight hug, “Evan!” His mother and Stiles walked towards them in a more normal pace. His mom embraced him lovingly and Stiles hugged him –a little tightly, Evan noticed. “Hey, Essie. Long time no see. You okay, man?”

Stiles let out a snort and said, “Always. Hey! A new one.” He pointed at Evan’s nose, a small silver ring now piercing it.

In the car on the way home Rose babbled about her kids –she called them _her kids_ with pride. She was a good teacher, Evan thought. He and Stiles were sitting in the back, Stiles bobbing his leg up and down at a jittery pace. Evan placed his hand on Stiles’ knee, “You’re making me nervous.” He received an apologetic grimace and returned his focus on Rose.

The pleasantries everyone was exchanging –about his time in South America and Stiles in college- were masking an ugly reality: the move. And more specifically, the _why_ of the move. Over the last few months, for once in his entire life, Evan was glad he was not an empath. Evan was disgusted to see how the world reacted to the ‘newcomers’. It seemed people were even more agitated in the US than elsewhere.

Evan had come back while he was on break to spend time with his family and help them move. What his plans were for the future, he had no idea. That wasn’t on his mind. What was on his mind was his family: his mom, Rose, his grandparents, Stiles and the Sheriff. And yes, the Stilinskis were part of it, to him.

They arrived at the bar an hour later and the place looked almost the same, now only emptier; they had probably started cleaning up already. The actual move was to take place in one week. Tomorrow was the last day the bar was open to the public and there would be a celebration. While the others were having something to drink in the courtyard –Rose and Stiles squished in the hammock and his mother sitting on one of the two chairs-, Evan walked upstairs, where the walls were already bare and cardboard boxes filled the rooms. He was angry. If empaths weren’t hunted, his mother and sister would continue to peacefully live here.

He opened the door to his bedroom, where more empty boxes and a still full room welcomed him. _Messy_ , his mother had often called him. On multiple occasions, she had warned with threats to clean up his room, _or else_. Organisation skills lacked, apparently. He looked around for a long time, picking up knick-knacks he’d acquired over the years.

Stiles knocked on the open door, announcing his presence. “Mmh, looks like you’ve got some work to do, my friend.” Rose followed after him.

“Yeah, I know,” he admitted, “but I wanted to do it myself. Also get rid of some of this junk.”

“What, like this?” Stiles pointed to his desk, which next to mementos and souvenirs from all of the trips he’d taken in his life also contained piles of useless brochures, clothes he’d grown out of and old school folders. “Yeah, like that, I guess.”

“Well,” Rose declared, “I ain’t helping. I’ve done enough packing for the next couple of years.” Evan couldn’t help but think, _Are you so sure you won’t have to move again?_ His sister seemed to think the same thing and pressed her lips together after letting out a frustrated sigh. “I’m starting dinner, because your cooking sucks, Evan.” It was true, he also lacked culinary skills. She left the room and Evan turned his attention to all the crap in his room.

“So, what do you say, lend an old friend a hand?” Evan asked. “I could use it. What a mess.”

“Yeah, it really is impressive, I gotta admit. My room is much more orderly. You’d think it’d be the other way ‘round.” Stiles picked up one of the cardboard boxes and looked at Evan for further instructions. He had circles under his eyes and looked skinny.

“Those wolves, they feeding you enough?”

Stiles frowned and looked defensive. “I feed myself, Evan. Thanks for the compliment.”

“It’s not a compliment, it’s a concern,” Evan said while taking old children’s books and stuffing them in the box without looking. Stiles put them neatly in order and answered Evan’s questioning look. “Maximise space, you idiot. How are you ever going to get all of that in here?” Stiles pointed at the book closet.

“I’m just concerned, Es, don’t you get that?”

“I get it, but I just don’t want to talk about it, do you think you can do that?” Evan hated it when Stiles used this mocking tone.

“Don’t be an ass.”

“I’m sorry…,” he shrugged, “Sorry.”

They made several piles –to be thrown away, to be kept –, taped off boxes and threw heaps of paper away –homework, receipt, old calendars. Evan talked of South America and of the guy he was seeing. He spoke of the houses he built with entire groups and the way people lived in older villages of the South. Stiles seemed to forget about his bad mood and partook in the conversation with his usual quick wit. An hour or so later, Evan realized that the travelling had worn him out and he suggested they stop when Rose called –hollered- from downstairs that the food was ready. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Stiles, I’m just worried about you.”

“I know,” Stiles told him.

Evan asked, “Okay?”

“Okay.” Stiles looked as if he would rather be speaking of something else.

“And thank you for helping me. Come on, let’s eat, I’m starving.” He lowered his head slightly and kissed Stiles’ temple. They enjoyed a delicious if chunky lasagne.

 

+

 

The three of them were lying on the king size bed in Rose’s room. It was after twelve and Evan was trying to fall asleep, but his dry throat kept him awake. He coughed a couple of times and dragged himself out of bed, rousing his sister from slumber. 

He padded downstairs to the kitchen and heard Rose enter. She yawned widely with an accompanying noise, like a whale. He turned the tap on and filled a glass for himself. “You want?” he asked, but she shook her head, rubbing at her eyes. In silence, he gulped it down in one go.

“I’m really glad to see you, Evan,” his sister said. He looked at her in the cold kitchen light. He’d missed her, more than his mother. Her hair had changed again since the last time he was here, only a few months before: it was straightened now, and long, dyed in honey blond and pulled back in a messy bun. She got bored with her hair quickly, too. Since he’d left Beacon Hills, he’d shaved his head, rasta locks gone.

“Me, too. How are you holding up?”

She opened the fridge and plucked out some grapes –she’d always liked the grapes to be as cold as possible. “I’m scared. We’re all scared, here. But I think it’ll be better once we move. At least, that’s the plan.”

Evan nodded, “Yeah, I hope so, too.” The clock was ticking loudly, the rest of the house dead to the world. “And how is he holding up?” he asked while nodding upwards.

“Not good,” she admitted. “You know him, at first he pretended to be fine, always joking and laughing. But now, he’s passed that faze. He’s sad and scared. It’s horrible, Evan.”

Evan said nothing, just thought for a while. “I take it they still don’t know.”

“No, and Stiles told me they had a sort of falling out.”

“He didn’t tell you what about?”

She sighed, “A little. You know that empath who got killed, I told you on the phone,” he nodded, “Well, it came up while they were eating, all of them and his father, and Derek hadn’t reacted too supportively. Stiles didn’t want to say more about it.”

“God,” Evan said, “That’s … awful.”

“Lightly put.” She popped another grape into her mouth, _crack_. “You know, I told him, move away with us, but he doesn’t want to.”

“And the Sheriff?”

“Oh, he does. But,” she shrugged, “Stiles is stubborn.” That, Evan knew.

He stretched and heard his spine pop. “So they’re staying.”

“I guess so, but I hope not.”

“What a sad, sad world it has become,” Evan said quietly.

“Let’s try not to be this glum tomorrow. There’s going to be a party. Maybe we can cheer him up a little.”

“Maybe.” They walked back up the stairs, turning left to Rose’s bedroom.

“Does he stay over often?” Evan asked.

“No, hasn’t in a really long time. Guess he missed you.”

Evan felt bad for Stiles. He didn’t really know how to make this better. Buried underneath a pile of sheets, Stiles was breathing softly.

His mother awoke them in the morning, humour clear on her face. As Evan got up and walked past her to go to the bathroom she said, “All three of you asleep like that, it’s like we’re back in Sacramento and you’re four years old. Stiles still hogs most of the space.” Evan smiled at her and commented, “Simpler times, probably.” The smile she returned was melancholy.

 

+

 

The bar had always been moderately successful, for most a venue of habit, familiarity. They always saw the same faces. Tonight was no different. His mother was currently sat on the bar –she looked like a teenager, Evan thought- and held a little speech of thanks and goodbye. She was tearing up while smiling. The crowd applauded at the end, to which she responded, “And as my last little treat, drinks on the house!” A lot of whooping and whistling. He saw her walk over to one of their regular customers, a man named Jack with a beer belly and a moustache. 

Stiles was standing amongst the sea of people, nursing a rum and coke. True, he wasn’t twenty-one yet, but the second bartender who worked at Peanuts –Liam, aged thirty-two with an innocently round face – didn’t care too much about bending the rules a bit. Besides, the Sheriff didn’t seem to really mind. Evan nodded at him and tried to engage him in a conversation, but Stiles seemed more interested in his drink.

“Hello, lads,” Rose said in a British accent when she joined them –she was actually good at imitating accents, unlike most people. “Ready to cheer me on?” Rose was going to be singing a song tonight. Growing up, Evan had often heard her sing in the house. It was one of the things he missed, living alone. She had a low voice, very soft and pretty. She was the singer, he was the guitarist –he wasn’t particularly good, but enjoyed playing.

“You bet,” Stiles told her. “What did you decide on, in the end?”

“Wild horses, The Sundays version.” Evan knew she loved the song, it was one she sang regularly, one they played in the bar from time to time. “Evan here is going to back me up.”

Stiles’ eyes snapped to Evan with raised brows, “I didn’t know you played that well.”

“I don’t,” Evan replied truthfully. “But she’s planned this for a while, and I’ve been practising. A lot,” he reassured his sister. Rose grinned at him and winked. 

They settled in one of the booths, playing cards like in the early days when Stiles first started training at the bar. Evan looked at him and remembered what it felt like being in love with Stiles. It wasn’t a bad feeling. Stiles looked at him shyly, surely noticing the change in atmosphere. With a smile, Evan calmed him, “Don’t worry, little man, I won’t kiss you out of the blue again.”

“Again?” Rose exclaimed while Stiles said, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Evan laughed and turned to his sister. “It was a long time ago, at graduation.”

“Why didn’t anybody tell me?” she pouted.

“Nothing to tell,” Evan said simply. Stiles still didn’t look at ease. “Come on, Stiles, stop worrying.” Abruptly, Stiles turned it into a joke, like the old Stiles Evan knew. “It’s okay, I mean, I know I’m a hot piece of ass.” 

Rose was the winner of most card games, and six p.m. turned into eight p.m. While Rose and Stiles were engaged in an intense game of spit, Evan observed the crowd. His mother was talking to a lady who always sat on the last stool on the right side of the bar, illegally smoking her cigarette inside –his mother allowed it. The Sheriff was in a conversation with a young couple from Indonesia that had moved next door two years ago. Evan had talked to them a couple of times, and had had difficulty understanding their speech. The Sheriff looked as if he was trying hard to do the same. For the rest, the bar was pretty full. Evan noticed the Hales weren’t there. Neither was Scott. 

“I’m going to get ready,” Rose announced, getting up. She moved to the back of the room, where they had set up a makeshift stage. Evan looked at Stiles, who sat slumped while rhythmically chewing the straw of his drink –fourth, alcoholic. Evan had seen John’s worried glances. He was probably regretting the you’re-almost-a-grownup-drink-whatever-you-want talk he’d had with his son right now.

“Come on, smile me that beautiful smile,” Evan requested. A fake, if drowsy one appeared on Stiles’ face. “Not really what I had in mind, Es.”

“Can’t offer you more than that.”

Evan’s eyes flickered over to Rose and he said, “I should probably go help her set up.”

“Yeah, probably.” Why was it hard to leave him alone? For some reason, Evan was scared Stiles would do something stupid. “Drink some water.”

“Whatever,” was the answer.

“No, not whatever, drink some water.” He pulled Stiles up and they puzzled through the crowd. “Liam, a full glass of water for Stiles, please.” Liam nodded and his eyed trailed over Stiles worriedly.

Stiles sat down on an empty stool –the last one- and sipped slowly. Evan told him he was going to help Rose.

Once they were done with the set-up, Rose introduced herself to the room, “… daughter of the one and only Charlie Tenner. My brother will be playing guitar. This is a thank you to all of you, for keeping the business open, and a congratulations to you, mom.” She lifted her glass and beverages popped up everywhere. The lights dimmed and the two of them were illuminated by two extra lights put on the floor. 

It didn’t go perfectly, but it was good. Evan smiled as he played, watching his sister obviously enjoying herself immensely. _If I were an empath, would I see lines on her arms, fingers, neck, face? Would I feel her contentment?_ His eyes lingered momentarily to where his mother was now standing next to Stiles, both of them looking at the performance.

As soon as the song was over people clapped. “The stage is open to those who want to have a go at it, there’s a list of songs if you want some inspiration!” Rose said it all too quickly, she was too excited. Evan put away the guitar quickly in his room, zipping it up in a bag, ready to be taken to Canada when they left.He went back downstairs. He didn’t see where his sister had gone off to. Evan talked to a man who told him what a kind woman his mother was. _Then why is she hunted?_ He thanked him, and went to look for Stiles.

What he found, he didn’t like: Stiles looked as miserable as a five year old whose toys had been taken away. Not only was he not smiling, he was now effectively staring into the glass of water –empty – while frowning deeply. 

Evan pulled Stiles aside, away from the music and people and into the narrow hallway of the bar. “Stiles, whatever’s on your mind, it’s going to bother you all evening anyways, so why not just say it?”

“I don’t want to be a downer.” Stiles leaned opposite of him against the minty green wall. He was wearing a baggy hoodie, hands shoved as far as they could in the pockets. Evan could see the outline of his knuckles stretching against the fabric.

“Es, you’re being a downer anyhow. I’ve barely seen you smiling this evening.”

“Sorry.” It was quiet and impersonal, nothing like the Stiles he knew.

“Don’t apologize, just tell me what’s wrong. You can always talk to me.” Evan added that last bit because Rose had told him Stiles felt stuck sometimes, unsure of who to turn to.

After taking a deep breath, Stiles admitted, “I don’t know what to do. What the fuck do I do, Evan?” He didn’t need Stiles to verbalize what he was talking about, who he was talking about. Derek. Evan had only met him a handful of times. Like himself, Derek wasn’t the jealous type, or the bullshitting type, yet they didn’t really hit it off. 

“Tell him the truth.”

Stiles let out a ridiculous laugh, “It’s not that simple. The hate he feels, for our kind … How can I ignore that?”

Evan asked him quietly, “He loves you?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, looking him in the eye.

“Then shouldn’t it be simple?”

Stiles shook his head, “No, it’s really, really not. It’s a fucking mess. It was bad before, but now, now it’s just horrible. And the worst part is, it’s really all my fault.”

“You don’t choose who you fall for,” Evan tried.

Stiles huffed, “Maybe not, but you know what, _no._ I’ve been lying to him since day one. I could’ve left him alone. I could’ve told him the truth, almost two years ago. _Oh, god_. And it’s just gonna blow up in my face. He’s so angry.” He dumped his head in his hands, loud smack.

“I’m sorry, Stiles.” Evan pushed himself off the wall, stood next to Stiles and swung an arm over his friend, he felt Stiles needed it.

The next words coming out of Stiles’ were a surprise. “Why couldn’t I just love you, like you loved me all that time ago? Everything about you is simple, easy.” Seeing Evan’s slightly frowning face, Stiles apologized. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought that up, that was shitty of me.”

Evan said, “No, I’m not angry. I am simple. You, on the other hand, are a different story.” Evan squeezed his shoulder. “I have to admit, though, I think we would’ve been good together.”

Stiles huffed again and said, “Evan, you were good enough for the both of us. Me, not so much.”

“You’re putting yourself down again,” Evan reminded him.

“Fine,” Stiles said with a small sigh, “We just weren’t _compatible_ like that, better?”

That earned Stiles a smile, “Much better, Essie. Now quit sulking and let’s go enjoy this last night. Sound good?”

“Sure, sounds good.” Evan doubted Stiles meant it, but what could he do?

“Come on,” Evan took his arm off Stiles and walked back. When Stiles didn’t follow, Evan turned back and gave him a gentle shove towards the music. “Chin up. Soldier on.”

 

+

 

Saying goodbye to the Stilinskis was sad, but Evan had done it before. Rose and his mother hadn’t. There was a lot of hugging and quiet tearing up. The car was full, the U-Haul ever more so. Charlie locked the doors and dropped the key into the letterboxfor the next owner to pick up.

Evan said goodbye to the Sheriff before turning to Stiles. “You call me whenever, okay? You know my number. Don’t forget it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Stiles said.

Rose slid under Evan’s arm, both of them looking sadly at the friend they were about to leave. His sister gave Stiles another hug, saying “I love you. Don’t forget about me, you idiot.”

“Would not dream of it,” Stiles repeated, enunciating the words. “I’m serious, though.”

“I know.”

Rose opened the door to the passenger’s seat and got in the old blue Ford.

“Bye, Stiles.”

“I promise I’ll keep in touch,” he said. He rubbed his hand over his buzz cut, slowly.

“I thought you were tired of keeping promises.”

Stiles snorted and for a minute Evan saw the old Stiles in him. “Yeah, you’re absolutely right. No more promises. Promise-free, from now on. I’ll just leave it at, ‘Bye, Evan. I’ll see ya’.” His tone was light, worry free for once.

“Good, I’m glad. Bye, Essie.” One long hug.

“Bye, Evan. I’ll see ya.”

And they were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exit Tenners.   
> Any thought on the original characters? I get the feeling that a lot of people don't like OCs in the fandom, though it isn't clear to me why.  
> Only one more to go!


	24. For now

 

 

+

Stiles

 

A week had passed since the Tenners moved. Stiles had just spent an hour in Derek’s room, going over some notes he’d made earlier during one of his classes. On more than one occasion had he noticed Derek’s standoffish behaviour, his hawk-like eyes on him. Stiles couldn’t take it anymore, and made some excuse to leave earlier. None of the other pack members were at the Hales’ apartment. Usually, the time they had to themselves without other wolves around was put to a more physical use, but not of late.

Derek took his keys and shut the door behind him, w _eird_ , Stiles thought. Derek wasn’t the kind to follow Stiles until he was sure he was safely in the car. “You going out?” Stiles asked, head craning backwards. He was walking in front of Derek, holding on to the railing so he wouldn’t lose his balance. “Need to pick up some stuff at the store.”

“Right-o,” Stiles said. There was no smile on his face that couldn’t reach his eyes.

They stepped outside.

“Why did the Tenners move?” A simple question, but the answer carried too much meaning. Derek’s voice was steady and clear as he asked it. So that was on Derek’s mind. Stiles zipped up his hoodie and turned to face the music. A sense of dread washed over him.

“They wanted out of Beacon Hills.”

“Why.” Not a question, a command.

“Because … they wanted out.”

Derek took a breath and Stiles fought the urge to turn away from him, ignore the situation. “Are they empaths?” Stiles wished he hadn’t said that word. That one word made him lose his cool. He remained silent.

“Are you?”

And now, panic was a word Stiles was familiar with. On a daily basis even, but what he felt now was worse, so much worse than what he’d ever felt before. His breathing wasn’t steady anymore, his heart rate was going through the roof and he was sweating profusely. He couldn’t stop staring at a small hole in his shoe, zooming in on the little imperfection.

“Yes,” was all he could manage, but he did look up now, tearing his eyes away from his footwear and into the eyes of Derek. Cold, cold, cold, like marbles: bright and hard.

His affirmation didn’t provoke anything. Stiles figured Derek must’ve already suspected it, maybe as soon as the Tenners left. Or even earlier?

“Derek?” The guy didn’t say anything, just turned around. Stiles sprinted and caught up with him, standing in front of him. “Derek, please. Please, I promise I never, _ever,_ cheated you, okay? I never manipulated you or tricked you into anything, I swear,” Derek stepped sideways and onwards without a word. Stiles caught up again. He didn’t dare touch him, just held his hands in the air, a gesture of surrender. “Please listen to me. I’m not Kate, I promise you. I didn’t tell you because I promised my dad I would never reveal it to someone and then shit started getting bad-,”

“ _Shit_ started getting bad months ago,” Derek sneered. “You had two years before that. Two fucking years of my life.” Abruptly he stopped talking, as if angry at himself for speaking when he’d resigned to stay quiet. Derek walked on, pushing Stiles sideways, who grabbed at his arm and got pulled along instead of keeping Derek in place.

“I _wanted_ to, damn it” he said desperately, nails digging into Derek’s forearm. “I wanted to, so many fucking times. You remember telling me I felt off sometimes? Well it was that!”

Derek turned his head sideways, eyes ablaze, “Let. Me. Go. Now,” he threatened. Stiles looked down at where he was gripping Derek, dents clear in the skin. As soon as he released his hold, Derek stormed off, this time at a quicker pace. There was a lump in his throat that grew painful, telling him he was about to cry.

“Come on, Derek, please. I’m so sorry.” It had no effect. “Stop walking away from me!” Tears blinded his eyes and his voice cracked audibly, ugly and broken, but Derek kept on walking. “Christ! You love me and you would just fucking walk away? _Stop, please don’t leave._ ” 

Derek turned around and looked at him one last time, “You love _me,_ and you would lie to me like that? Use me like that?”

“I never used you, Derek, I swear,” Stiles yelled. Tears were falling overboard.

Derek reached his Camaro, door squeaking harshly as he sat down in the drivers’ seat. Stiles could see his shoulders were tense and his jaw even more so. Beyond that, nothing was all too visible, water pooling in his vision. The door was already closed when Stiles halted near it. He knew Derek could hear him, yelling at him to _please, open the door_ and _please, get out_ and _god fucking damn it, talk to me_. He knew Derek could hear the tremor in his voice, angry desperation seeping into his words, but the door remained shut. Derek’s face didn’t turn to look at him and the next thing he knew, tires were squealing against the gravel and Stiles was sitting on his knees in the cold parking lot, abandoned.

 

+

 

Stiles dragged himself home, completely worn out. So that was it. It had officially blown up in his face. Was it possible to feel worse and better at the same time? An enormous weight was lifted off his shoulders, but his heart had grown heavier instead. Stuck between a rock and a hard place. Regardless of what the result of his confession was, Stiles thought it was for the best. It had to happen someday. And maybe this was not the way he’d wanted it to go, but that was what the universe had given him.

Stiles was paying too little attention to the road, nearly colliding with a red truck before slamming on the brakes. He lifted his hands in apology and the lady driving the car looked at him sternly before simply driving away. In his bedroom, he dumped himself on his bed and tossed and turned for the rest of the day. Derek wouldn’t answer his phone.

A few days later he returned from his Thursday two-thirty class, Developmental Psychology –he hadn’t a single clue what had been said during the lecture, thoughts elsewhere –, to find a strange scene at home: his father was running from one side of the house to the other, clutching in his hands clothes, folders, and a picture of the two of them, previously situated on the mantle of a never-used fireplace. Stiles had no doubt about what was going on, but said anyways, “Dad, what are you doing?”

His father stopped mid-scramble and then continued to walk to his bedroom on the first floor. Stiles followed him impatiently. “Hello? I’m talking to you.” An apologetic face, and then, “Sorry, Es, we’re in a hurry.”

“ _We_ are in a hurry?”

“We’re leaving, son, now.” His father’s bedroom had light brown coloured walls and the sun was filtering through half open shades. A big suitcase sat on the bed. Stiles could see dust marks from the little wheels on the white sheets. They didn’t travel often.

“Leaving,” Stiles repeated. “We’re leaving. Just like that? We can’t just _leave_ , dad.”

“Yes we can, and we’re going to.” His father dumped the pile of clothes in the suitcase and put the picture carefully next to it on the bed. He turned around and looked at Stiles.

“Last time I checked, I was past eighteen, a legal adult, able to make my own decisions,” Stiles said angrily.

His father ignored that part. “Son, today at the station they started testing for empaths, having people touch gold to see if anyone reacted, okay? I managed to get away, but they’ll have noticed.” Out of his breast pocket he fished his phone and showed Stiles the display. Two missed calls from work. “They’re going to come here, and they’ll come after me, and if they find out I’m one, they’ll go after you. We need to move, _now,_ ” he warned.

His father resumed packing, yanking open his dresser and adding clothes to the pile. Stiles started asking, “Couldn’t you control-,”

“ _No, Essie._ No, I won’t. Neither will you, you hear me? Go pack your essentials. We leave in ten minutes.” His dad’s face was red and panicked. “Go,” he repeated forcefully when Stiles didn’t move.

“But, dad, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to leave-,”

“No man is worth your life, Stiles. Not ever. I will not lose you. I refuse. Go pack your things, now,” he yelled. “Go.”

“No,” Stiles answered, as if it were that simple.

“Stiles, I’m not joking.” His father quit packing and grabbed Stiles’ face with his two hands. “If you stay, you _will_ end up dead, and that is a guarantee. Please, I am begging you, for me, for your mother, even for Derek, go pack your things. What good is loving a man if you’re dead?”

The words sunk in. Actual life-threatening peril. Death. “I … okay, I’ll, I’ll pack.” Numb, he walked out of the room, feeling his father’s eyes on him.

In his room he found a suitcase on his bed. With a surge of adrenaline, he started grabbing things from all over the house. Clothes, old books, photo’s, his passport, all of his keys, a sweater he’d borrowed from Derek, shoes, winter coat, his laptop and phone – _leave them, Stiles, I’ll buy a disposable phone one on the way to the Tenners_ -, that one ragged teddy bear he hadn’t slept with for over ten years, six bottles of water, what was left of the bread, some snacks, a couple of birthday cards, a fake document signed by both him and Scott swearing their everlasting friendship, … And then he didn’t know what to do anymore. Stiles frantically thought, _what am I forgetting, what else do I need?_

Before he had the chance to pack more things, his father ushered him out the door, arms full of bags and one large suitcase. Stiles wanted things to go slower, he felt as if he had no control over the situation. He ran back inside, “One sec,” and grabbed the phone off his bed. On a piece of paper he wrote down the number of the Tenners, Scott, Derek, Cora and Laura, _as if I could forget._ But just to be sure. Stiles hesitated for a nanosecond before calling Derek. No answer. He redialled. No answer. He shot off a quick text, then groaned in frustration and dropped the cell back –turned off- on his bed. He raced down the steps, out the door and climbed into the Jeep –a cruiser was hardly inconspicuous. The Sheriff insisted on driving, and Stiles didn’t object. His fingers were shaking. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I really am.” Misplaced resentment kept him from acknowledging the sincere apology. 

One last look at the house, his home, his everything, and they left.

 

+

 

He couldn’t stop his thoughts from yelling around in his head. He wanted to stay, but he wanted to be alive, too. His father was right, how would being dead serve the others? His frantic heart wouldn’t stop hammering. _At this rate, I’ll suffer a heart attack_ , he thought. The sun was shining brightly outside, a false mirror of the situation. The road was long. The lines enwrapping themselves like poison ivy around his arms wouldn’t stop moving. The movements were distorted, broken, a true mirror of how he felt. 

Stiles looked over to his dad who was clutching the wheel anxiously. His mouth was set in a tight, grim line, eyes focused on the road. More than a half hour had passed since either of them had spoken. The small talk initiated by the Sheriff were met with short, curt answers, _no, yes, I don't know, no, no_. His dad stopped trying.

Was this what was in store for them, an eternal life of hide and seek? The thought sent Stiles metaphorically climbing the walls. His chest pulled together and he tried to battle an oncoming panic attack. He longed for his mother, suddenly missing her terribly.

_What am I going to do? I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know._

There was a sliver of hope inside him. He hoped he would be forgiven.

He would stay on the road with his father, for now. For now. _For now. For now. For now. For now._ He repeated the words to himself until they lost all meaning.

 

 

+

Derek

 

“Stiles is gone.” Laura looked at him with concern while she said it, yet there was a slight accusatory edge to her voice. She was seated on a chair next to the dinner table. “Derek,” she said when he didn’t respond.

He stood nailed to the floor, unable to process what she’d said. “Derek, did you hear me?” Laura got up and walked over to him.

The past two days were a blur. The new phone he’d bought five months ago wouldn’t stop ringing and beeping, _Stiles, 4:03 p.m., Stiles 4:05 p.m., Stiles 4:30 p.m., …_ There was no end to it, and he’d shut the thing off –he hadn’t thrown it against the wall like he’d wanted to. Then there was the knocking, the incessant knocking on his their front door. Stiles had a key, but Derek had bolted the door from the inside. He knew it was ridiculous, childish, but he didn’t want to face Stiles, face a choice he needed to make, so he’d locked the door. Thankfully, neither of his siblings had been home.

At one point, after thirty minutes of pounding on the door, he’d opened. Stiles’ hand had been bright red, abused by the steel door. Almost instinctively, he’d felt the need to lessen the pain. It would bruise.

Stiles hadn’t stopped talking, apologizing, begging. In the end, though, when Derek had not answered a single thing, Stiles had turned angry. “Can’t you tell I’m not lying? _I didn’t manipulate you, ever!_ ” What could Derek say to that? None of the things he’d been thinking would have made the situation any better: I don’t believe you. I don’t trust you. Get the hell out of my apartment. “Derek, say something,” Stiles had shouted. “Anything. For fuck’s sake, don’t just stand there!”

Derek had just stood there, arms crossed and looking at the floor. “You won’t even look at me. Look at me, god damn it,” he had ground out. Reluctantly, Derek had snapped his head up, irises electric blue. Stiles hadn’t looked shocked, because he’d been able to tell – _he could tell, Christ –_ just how angry Derek had been.

“Do you love me?” Stiles had asked, angrily. A nod.

“Do you believe me?” No answer. Did Derek believe him? Even now, it was difficult to make up his mind, the tumult of emotions messing up his judgement.

Stiles had sighed, sounding exhausted, and had said before leaving, “Well, I love you, too, and I am not lying now. I can’t deny having lied to you in the past about me … being an empath, and I get it now, that was a mistake. I’m not sorry for being what I am, but I’m sorry for what I did –or didn’t do. Tell the truth, I mean. But, but I _didn’t_ use you, or manipulate you. I didn’t trick you, or, or, or play with your mind. I don’t do that to people.” How often had Stiles said those words now? They started sounding repetitive, meaningless.

Stiles had moved closer, and Derek’s reaction –a jerk backwards- hadn’t stopped Stiles. _Of course not,_ Derek had thought, _when has he ever backed down?_ Stiles hadn’t been nearly as scared of him in this situation as he ought to have been. Was it because he could have protected himself, if necessary?

“I,” Stiles had hesitated, eyes searching Derek’s, “I hope one day you’ll forgive me. I … I just…” Giving Derek no chance to back out, Stiles had moved forward and had pressed a quick kiss to Derek’s forehead, only very slightly lifting his head up. He’d left after that, leaving Derek undecided and still angry. So very, very, fucking angry.

Now his sister was looking at him expectantly. Stiles was gone. Stiles was _gone._ _How could … why would he?_ “The Sheriff’s gone, too. What happened? Did he tell you anything? Do you know where he is?”

Derek broke out of his trance and stormed past her. He took the stairs two steps at a time, entered his room and turned on his phone. Seventeen missed calls in the past two days, two of them dating six hours ago. The last text message was, _We needed to leave. Please don’t think I left you._ Needed to leave. Why?

The growl in his chest grew louder and Laura looked at him in concern. God damn it. The fury he’d initially felt those two days ago seemed to dissipate, changing into something else. Something resembling desperation, fear. Where was he?

“This has something to do with your mood, I assume?” His mood being closing himself off yet again, as he’d done when Kate had happened.

He’d just say it. “Stiles ... he’s an empath. He told me the day before yesterday.” Strangely, Laura didn’t seem surprised. Instead, she said, “I thought as much.”

“What?” His anger flared up again and his words sounded harsh. “What the hell do you mean, you thought as much?”

His sister approached him, offering her compassion. She draped an arm over his shoulder. “I sort of started suspecting it a couple weeks back, after that disastrous dinner. And-,”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? You didn’t think I might’ve wanted to know? With Kate?”

“It’s Stiles, Derek. He hasn’t a malicious bone in his body. And he loves you. We’ve known him for years, and he’s never been dishonest with us except for this. And can you blame him, look at how we reacted? How everyone reacted.” She sounded remorseful. “We’re prejudiced, Derek, _because_ of Kate-,”

“He could’ve told us when he met us,” Derek interrupted her. “He’s known us for years.”

“I’m sure he had his reasons. You know him, he’s smart,” she said quietly.

“What reasons? He told me he’d promised his father, but two years _,_ Laura.” Derek shut his eyes, forcing himself to calm down. He was growling again. Laura rubbed his back, rhythmic circles. “About that,” she began slowly. Derek reopened his eyes and turned to her. _What now?_

“I wasn’t going to tell you, because I thought Stiles would say something about it when or if he wanted.” He looked at her, waiting for the rest. He lifted his brows, _go on._

“You remember when I took that business trip down to Houston last month?” Derek remembered. He’d shoved Cora out of the apartment and Stiles and he had spent two entire days locked inside. Derek had been happy to have Stiles completely to himself, but Stiles never completely relaxed. _I guess I know why, now._

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Well, I met an Alpha there at one of the meetings we had, an old woman named Rebecca Hayes. She was really friendly and we started talking about our packs. I mentioned you and Stiles and she started acting strange. She felt guilty for some reason and I asked her why. At first she didn’t want to tell me, but after hearing how genuinely I cared about Stiles, she fessed up.” Derek didn’t understand where this was going. “She said that about fifteen years ago, when they’d been living in Sacramento, she’d had to kill one of her betas because he had killed an innocent woman.” Derek started to understand where this was going. “It was-,” “Stiles’ mother.” Laura nodded sadly.

Derek didn’t know about empaths and how their genes worked, how the trait was passed down, but he could only assume Stiles’ mother had been an empath as well.

“So, I suppose that’s why his father made him promise.” Laura offered the simple solution and added, “Let me guess, little brother, you didn’t react too well.” Derek shook his head. And now Stiles was gone.

“Does Scott know?” Laura asked.

Derek shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“See, he didn’t even tell his best friend,” Laura offered, as if it made the situation any better.

“I don’t understand why he left,” Derek finally said after a long silence.

“Derek, come on, open your eyes. He can’t stay here. Beacon Hills is a complete death trap, and it’s not getting any better. They’re not getting any help, not even from … us,” she admitted. Derek felt like a fool.

“Fuck, Laura.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

He rubbed his face and blinked a couple of times. He hadn’t slept enough. “You should get some sleep,” Laura advised him, “you look absolutely terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll … you’ll go after him?” She’d stood up and was about to leave his bedroom. When he didn’t reply, she said, “You’ll regret it if you don’t, Derek.”

“Good night, Laura.”

She sighed and tucked some hair behind her ear. Blue eyes flashed red, not in warning, but in sympathy. “Good night.”

But he couldn’t sleep. His mind was stuck on Stiles. He wanted him next to him in his now empty bed. He wanted Stiles not to be an empath. He wanted Kate not to have existed. He wanted to be alone. He wanted Stiles. Why couldn’t he stop being angry? Derek had to admit, Stiles hadn’t been lying about using his powers on him. Cynically, the back of his mind said, _he might be manipulating you into believing that_. That wouldn’t be true.Turning around in his bed, he grabbed his phone. No messages, no calls. It was up to him. Clicking on Stiles’ name, he put the phone to his ear, and waited.

 

+

 

 _For now, for now, for now, for now for now for now for now for now._ Stiles opened his eyes, disorientated. His neck was cramping painfully and he put his hand on it, pulling at the skin, as if it would magically relieve the ache. The red digits on the dashboard said one twenty seven a.m. His father was still driving, cup of coffee in one of the plastic holders. Outside, the night was black as coal. The highway was dimly illuminated by orange street lights –passing and fading. It was creating a shadow game on his face, a rhythm strangely soothing. _For now for now for now for now for now for now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand done!
> 
> A superfragilisticexpialidocious thank you to Julybug for the beta'ing work, I bothered and nagged you countless of times, but you kept on reading!
> 
> Comments, opinions, criticism or questions are welcome :) I hope you liked the story, and aren't disappointed by the ending. I had a lot of fun writing this!


End file.
